


Per Aspera Ad Astra

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Memories, Developing Relationship, Drama, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Injury Recovery, Kid Fic, M/M, No Mary, Parentlock, Post-Reichenbach, Psychological Trauma, series 3 fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>ABANDONED!</strong>
</p><p>Sherlock has to let himself get captured in order to destroy the final piece of Moriarty’s network. Things don’t go as planned and he’s in the hands of Sebastian Moran’s people for much longer than either he or Mycroft anticipated. The only thing that gets him through the endless weeks of waiting for his brother’s people is the meeting of an unlikely friend.</p><p>In the end, Sherlock returns to London a changed man and with someone who needs him more than he’s sure he can handle. Two years ago he would have gone to seek advice from his best friend, but things are a bit different now. He should probably tell John that he’s alive first.</p><p>The story of how three unique people grow to become an unconventional family.</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>Warning: highly erratic and irregular updating schedule.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Per Aspera Ad Astra – Chapter I**

* * *

_'Mycroft better hurry,'_ Sherlock thinks as he's hauled along the dark, mouldy-reeking corridor. _'This is going to be most tedious.'_

* * *

The minutes bleed together into hours, possibly days. Sherlock can't tell, not anymore. There is only pain. Pain, questions, demands and pain again.

Imbecilic, predictable idiots.

Blood trickles from his lips, over his chin and down to the floor, collecting in a dark puddle in the dirt by his bare feet.

Sherlock watches, _drip drip drip_ , and laughs. Low and rumbling, a hollow sound from deep within his aching chest.

The next time, the metal bar connects with his head and everything goes dark.

* * *

_"Who are you?"_ Sherlock's captor demands in an unmistakably Polish accent.

Silence.

 _"What do you want?"_ he literally spits at him, droplets of tobacco laced saliva landing on the detective's cheeks.

Silence.

 _"Why did you break in here?"_ he snarls with badly suppressed rage.

Silence.

 _"Who sent you?"_ is accompanied with a hard kick to his ribs.

Silence.

 _"Tell me what you want!"_ the man cries while Sherlock's head is jerked back, forcing him to look up at his torturer.

"A cup of tea would be lovely. Black, two sugars. Some biscuits, too, if you have them."

A furious growl, a fist and then the all-encompassing darkness again.

* * *

Screaming.

It takes Sherlock a while to realise the anguished sounds are tearing out of his own throat.

The leather makes contact with his back again. And again. And again. And again...

* * *

Oddly enough, the only thing going through Sherlock's mind when the man moves from his little to his ring finger to ruthlessly break that one as well is that it will take ages until he can play his violin again.

A crack and a scream.

His captor laughs and Sherlock's vision goes blurry before slowly fading away into darkness once again.

* * *

Small, nimble fingers move over his face, carefully probing at bruises and cuts, assessing their seriousness. Something wet, a washcloth, dabbing at dried blood. Gentle touches, only applying the barest amount of pressure.

Sherlock remains motionless, forces his breathing into a calm, steady rhythm. Feigning unconsciousness. No reason for anyone to know he has come around several minutes ago. Not yet.

The screeching sound of his cell's massive metal door, followed by heavy footsteps. Big feet, size eleven point five or twelve.

Something Polish is barked in a deep, scruffy voice and causes the movements on his face to still. Mostly. A hardly noticeable tremor still shakes the hand currently swiping a smudge of sweat-dirt-blood from his temple.

Silence for a long moment, which seems to satisfy his captor. Footsteps again, military boots, and the _thud_ of the closing door.

A relieved sigh, betraying a usually hidden layer of fear. Then the hands start at his wounds again. The antiseptic solution is spread over the deepest gashes with utmost precision, making them sting and burn. Sherlock gives no indication of discomfort, doesn't betray his alert state.

The other presence in the room changes position, moving to his back. The whip has left tattered, horrid-looking welts. They definitely require medical attention and stitches.

He hears the cloth being dipped into a bowl of water. A moment later the fabric is spread over the worst of the cuts, momentarily reducing the usual anguish to a dull throbbing.

After treating the mess that is his back, the person comes to stand in front of him again. Hesitation. Warm, slightly chapped lips are pressed to his forehead. A silent offer of comfort.

Surprised, Sherlock peels open his non-swollen eye once he's sure his 'nurse' isn't watching him anymore.

A child. She is only a child. How old? He flickers his eyes over her small form. Maybe four or five, going by the height. Battered and bruised. Thin. Too thin. _Oh._ Possibly older, then. Malnourished, neglected. A child. Why-

His thoughts are interrupted by a sudden wave of nausea and he quickly closes his eye. Saving strength.

A knock on the door and the girl is led outside. The same guard. Only one. Always the same.

Sherlock's body twists as the muscles in his arms begin to cramp. He flexes his fingers, no longer able to properly feel them. Shackled to the wall.

Where the bloody hell is Mycroft?

Stupid, useless, fat, annoying, meddling-

Sherlock's head lolls forwards, chin flopping against his chest.

Blackness.

* * *

Freshly baked bread and... soup? No, something more viscous. Porridge?

Sherlock wills his stomach to remain quiet. How long has it been? Four days? Five? Maybe six?

"I know you're awake."

The girl is back. Sitting in front of him on the floor. With food. Oh god, _food!_

"Your nose twitched when you smelled the rice pudding."

Ah, pudding. Not porridge. Close enough.

"Patryk has made me bring you something every day for the last four days. Your nose doesn't twitch when you're really asleep."

That is... moderately observant. The girl sounds proud of herself. And he has a name now. Patryk. Not particularly useful at the moment, but still. Information.

Slowly, Sherlock opens his good eye and regards the child. Curly brown hair reaching down to her lower back. Dark eyes, almost black in the dim light of the cell.

"Here," the girl smiles, holding a spoon to his mouth.

Sherlock presses his lips tighter together and glares.

With a roll of her eyes, the girl pops the pudding into her own mouth instead and makes a show of swallowing. She raises an eyebrow. "See?"

Grudgingly, Sherlock parts his lips and accepts the bite of pudding. It is heaven. He curses his body for demanding more. _Ugh._ Traitor.

The girl alternates between broken-off pieces of bread and loaded spoons, careful to blow on the hot liquid before feeding it to him.

Sherlock, in turn, watches her with rapt attention. His mind is still annoyingly sluggish from the previous lack of nutrition.

They have just finished the meal when the door opens and Patryk storms in wearing a murderous expression. He levels a withering glare at Sherlock before addressing the girl. Polish again.

"I don't know," the girl stutters in answer. She's terrified, Sherlock realises.

Something in Patryk snaps and he grabs her by the hair, ignoring her whimpers and sobs, and drags her outside.

"Przykro mi! Przykro mi!"

Sherlock can hear her desperate apologies, forced out between shaky breaths, long after the door falls closed.

A slap echoes through the corridor outside his prison and the girl goes quiet after one last cry.

* * *

It's mash and some sort of brown sauce the next day. This time the girl automatically takes the first bite before offering any of the food to Sherlock.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks that this must be some sort of new trick. An attempt to finally make him talk. He can't see how, though. Can't find a connection between Moran, Patryk and the girl. None of it makes any sense.

Mycroft better drag his fat self down here before-

"Do you wanna play deductions?"

Sherlock blinks. The girl is looking up at him with wide, pleading doe-eyes, expectantly biting her bottom lip.

Entirely unexpected. Mycroft and he used to play for hours when they were younger. It happens less frequently now. His brother still always wins, always gloats and teases and tells Sherlock 'not to be smart' and behaves like the irritating, arrogant prat he is. The bane of being the younger sibling, Sherlock supposes.

"Well?" the girl asks, barely able to contain her hopeful excitement. She's practically vibrating with tension.

Sherlock, intrigued, gives one curt nod.

"Awesome," the girl beams, then goes on to lay out the rules. "Let's do each other. I'll start and when I get something wrong it's your turn. Bien?"

French. The word came to her naturally. Sherlock is fairly sure she hasn't noticed the temporary slip into another language. Raised bilingually? Most likely. Interesting.

The girl crosses her legs, puts her elbows on her knees and rests her chin on her fists, eyes flickering over Sherlock. She's studying him, tongue making an appearance in the corner of her mouth. Concentrating hard.

"You play a string instrument," she finally begins and goes on when Sherlock doesn't protest. "There are calluses on your fingers. Easy," she grins smugly.

Sherlock waves his hand in a vaguely affirmative gesture. Hardly the biggest of leaps, as they go.

"You used to dance," she continues and touches one of her own bare feet against Sherlock's. He startles at the contact. It was entirely unanticipated. Strange. Human contact; not something he's indulged in very much over the last two years. "Your toes are all weird and bendy and that one," she pokes it, "has been broken once."

It's true. No human being moves as gracefully as Sherlock does without conscious effort. Years of ballet lessons helped. He really rather likes to dance, is a bit sad sometimes that the Work rarely requires that particular skill. He keeps hoping for an appropriate case.

"But there are no bruises or ingrown toenails or anything. So it has been a while."

Sherlock suppresses a smile. It wouldn't do to let the girl know he's genuinely enjoying himself, probably for the first time since he left London all those months ago. Her unthreatening behaviour and sunny nature are refreshing after dealing with the lowest of low-lives for so long. He is surprised to find that he rather likes the child. A completely ridiculous notion, of course. He hardly knows her at all.

"Did I get anything wrong so far?"

Sherlock shakes his head. The girl smiles brightly before assuming her previous position again, trying to find more detail. She seems unbothered by the fact that he isn't talking, isn't saying anything back. He's glad, he already slipped up once. He never intended to let Patryk hear his voice. Unforgivable slip-up brought on by sleep deprivation and hunger.

The child is frowning, she obviously has difficulty reading anything from him, so Sherlock takes a turn himself. There is a purple-blue-black bruise on her cheek where Patryk must have hit her the day before. She isn't acknowledging it, however. This, and the fact that she is extremely scared of the man, tells Sherlock it hasn't been the first time he used violence against her. He takes in her general appearance again, his gaze travelling from the top of her head down to her feet.

This time his lips to curve up into the barest hint of something akin to a smile. She is a dancer. Ballet, obviously, has been taking regular lessons until about six weeks ago. She sees where his eyes are resting and frowns.

"It's not cheating just because it's something I do too!" she says defensively.

A pang of... what? Longing? Guilt?

Baskerville.

_"'How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?' - 'Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name and that's not cheating, that's listening, I use my senses, John, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I've never been better, so just LEAVE ME ALONE!"_

John.

Sherlock shuts his eyes and pushes the images away. He can't let himself think of him, of home. He did, in the beginning. Memories are crippling, hindering. They have no place here.

He is pulled out of his thoughts by approaching footsteps. In front of him, the girl goes still and stiff as if preparing herself. A moment later there's Patryk, aggression and fury radiating off of him in waves.

His - their? - captor doesn't hesitate and yanks the girl up with brutal strength, fingers curled around her bicep. She screams this time, kicks and squirms and curses the man in probably every language she knows.

Patryk yells back and Sherlock knows what comes next. He almost wishes the other man would come for him again instead.

* * *

Sherlock doesn't see the girl again for three days. He's anxious and hates the feeling.

He starts wondering about her more and more as time goes by.

Her accent is English, she's originally from London. That much is transparent. How did she end up in some dump in the middle of nowhere? Moran's group didn't deal in human trafficking, as far as Sherlock knows. He has dismantled the whole of Moriarty's web and finally tracked his second in command to Poland, has let himself get caught in order to assure Moran's capture. All that is left are Moran's right hand man, Patryk, and about a dozen henchmen.

And the girl.

What about the girl?

* * *

On the fourth day she's back.

The moment she steps into his cell it becomes abundantly clear that she's different. Broken.

She doesn't speak as she goes about her task of feeding Sherlock, silently offering him bite after bite of tasteless stew. Her eyes stay on the ground.

The previously unharmed side of her face sports a vicious, red imprint of a gun handle and Sherlock decides to throw all caution to the wind. He finds that he can take being starved and beaten and humiliated, but seeing this proves to be too much.

"What's your name?" he asks, his voice hoarse from disuse.

The girl jerks, obviously not expecting the question. "Viola," she says quietly, playing with the spoon in her hand, twisting it between her fingers.

"Like the flower," Sherlock murmurs and she nods, shoots him a shy little smile.

"They were my father's favourite flowers. He once said I was like them; beautiful and delicate. He was a bit silly sometimes," she giggles and her nose wrinkles rather endearingly.

Might as well try his luck, Sherlock decides. Not that he believes in the concept of it, but why not? "What is your father's name?"

"Jim."

Coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy, says a voice in his head that sound suspiciously like the still absent Mycroft. Sherlock, for once, agrees wholeheartedly.

"Can you tell me your full name?" he presses, but tries to keep his tone light. He fails, apparently, going by the girl's, _Viola_ 's frown. She doesn't see the significance, so after a moment of confused contemplation she shrugs and answers the question.

"Viola Eulalie Moriarty."

_Ah._

And suddenly, the pieces fall into place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Per Aspera Ad Astra – Chapter II**

* * *

Patryk leaves Viola in his cell longer and longer with each passing day. He's getting nervous and twitchy, Sherlock realises, and hasn't the patience to deal with a small child all day long.

It's a fortunate turn of events, really. There are questions in need for answers and Viola loves the attention. She seems lonely. A concept Sherlock is painfully familiar with.

* * *

Some of the information Sherlock manages to extract from the girl is surprisingly useful.

"Daddy Jim showed me some pictures once. He met Daddy Sebastian when he was in school and he said they became friends and later fell in love and decided to have me."

It needs filtering to get through to the things of importance, but they are there. MI5 has been speculating about the exact nature of James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran's relationship for years - without results. They have both just popped up out of the blue and worked their ways up in the military and criminal world respectively. No birth certificates, school or doctor's records could be found. Nothing for either of them from before they became of age, nothing that hasn't, in the end, turned out to be fake.

Viola, in one simple sentence, confirms not only that two of the world's most dangerous inhabitants had been partners, but also that they had known each other since childhood. And that they must have lived something resembling an ordinary family life including a child before the whole disaster with The Fall. Which Sherlock somehow finds incredibly hard to picture and much more disturbing than seeing an Irish madman strap his best friend to-

Dangerous train of thought.

Stop.

* * *

Viola confirms Moriarty's death. Normally Sherlock would believe that someone who puts a bullet through his own brain is sufficiently dead, _but..._

But not when it comes to the master criminal.

"Daddy Sebastian came home one night when I was already asleep. He came into my room and stayed in my bed for the whole night. He cried and hugged me very hard. He told me Daddy Jim had died, which means that he's never going to come home anymore. He kissed my hair and told me he loved me very much and then we cried together. Sometimes I miss Daddy Jim very much. And Daddy Sebastian."

She absently reaches for Sherlock's foot and curls her hand around his ankle. It's only then she seems able to go on.

"Daddy Sebastian promised he was going to come back for me when he left me with Patryk. He said it wouldn't take long. Do you think he died, too?"

If everything has gone according to plan, Moran is in Mycroft's hands now. Being tortured for information. Probably not dead. Yet.

He can't tell her the truth. Lying is equally impossible, however, when she looks at him with big, shining doe-eyes. "I don't know," Sherlock finally says and hates himself a little bit for it.

Viola sighs, takes one shuddering breath and shifts closer to lean her head against Sherlock's right knee. "I don't think he'll come."

* * *

"I lived in London with Daddy Jim most of the time. Sometimes he had to go away for work, though."

Right under their noses. The whole bloody time.

How could he not have known?

How the hell didn't Mycroft know?

Or did he?

"Daddy Sebastian lived with us, too. But he was away a lot of the time. He was Daddy Jim's bodyguard and he also worked for other people who needed to be protected. He had a cabinet full of weapons. They were really awesome. Daddy Jim said I wasn't allowed to touch them, but Daddy Sebastian let me sit on his lap when he cleaned them and explained the parts to me."

There must have been clues. He should have seen. Stupid. _Stupid!_

* * *

"After Daddy Jim died, Daddy Sebastian stayed home with me a lot more. He was in their room most of the time and didn't talk much anymore."

Turns out Sherlock's lead was wrong. He left the country and chased after a shadow for months. Moran was in London all along.

"We came here four weeks ago, I think. Daddy Sebastian said I had to stay with Patryk, because some bad people were trying to hurt us. I think Patryk is a bad guy, too."

Four weeks. Four weeks ago, CCTV cameras spotted Moran near the old flat in Baker Street. Mycroft was convinced it was the first time Moran had set foot on English soil again since Moriarty's death.

Sherlock can't decide if he's going to throttle or strangle his brother once he gets here.

If...

_No!_

When. Definitely when.

* * *

Other things Viola talks about are of a far less processible nature. Sherlock finds that he enjoys those the most. He catches himself smiling honestly for the first time in nearly twenty-four months and it's a glorious feeling.

Her favourite movie is 'Mary Poppins', even though she knows that most of the things are silly and ridiculous and don't actually work in real life.

"But it's fun to pretend, you know? My favourite part is when they travel by jumping into Bert's picture. Where would you go if you could do that?"

Home, Sherlock thinks with a heavy heart. He doesn't say that and talks about one of his childhood homes in the South of France instead. He tells her about the pond and the tadpoles and how his grand-mère never told his parents about the approximately fifty frogs suddenly wreaking havoc all over the house because he was her favourite and she always encouraged his curiosity.

Viola ends up rolling around on the floor, giggling hysterically, and it's almost enough to make Sherlock forget whose laugh he longs to hear again.

* * *

They discover a mutual love of pirates.

The girl is going on about 'Peter Pan', which she has generously entitled 'the absolute best book ever in the history of cool books', when they come across the topic of Captain Hook.

"I feel a bit bad for him. He seems sad. Sometimes people are just angry and mean because they're sad."

If she had the choice, Viola would stay in Neverland forever. But not with the Lost Boys, because they don't really like girls. She'd find a ship and a crew and sail around the ocean where no one could tell her what to do. She'd be the Captain, of course, and if he wants to, Sherlock can come along as well. Even though he's all grown up. Viola thinks it would be okay because he's nice and doesn't act like the other adults.

Sherlock takes that as a compliment and grins when he thinks about how Mycroft would sneer and roll his eyes at their plan.

They'd have to take John as well. John would make a terrific pirate.

Why does everything always come back to John?

He wants John.

* * *

It's easy to slip into a rhythm and forget where he really is and what's really going on. The reminder is a shock, like someone throwing a bucket of cold water over his head.

Viola can barely walk by herself when Patryk pushes her into the cell that day. She wobbles close to Sherlock where she collapses in a small heap of misery and cries. She sobs and weeps and doesn't stop and all Sherlock can do is watch while his heart aches for her.

"Viola," he tries and the girl looks up at him with her face covered in dirt-blood-tears. He doesn't know what else to say, doesn't know how to offer comfort and it's hateful.

Sherlock wants to touch, to hug and pull her close - it's instinctive. He almost tells the girl about _her_ , then. But he doesn't. He can't. They don't talk about her. Ever. He thinks of hospitals and his parents, of the desperation and the pain. He remembers the funeral and standing by her grave with Mycroft, his brother's hand firmly clasping his own, neither of them able to form any words.

His eyes sting and Sherlock swallows hard, forcing everything back down and under lock and key. He stretches his legs and carefully presses one foot to Viola's belly. She curls around it immediately, clutches at his trousers and holds on for dear life.

Sherlock watches her cry herself to sleep and counts the number of ways he could kill Patryk with the objects available to him in this room if only he could get his hands free.

Twenty-eight.

* * *

It's almost impossible to take a guess at what exactly Viola is subjected to by Patryk.

Sherlock's nightmares shift and change. Viola is in all of them now.

He hopes the reality isn't as bad as the pictures his mind produces night after night.

* * *

He wakes up when the small body crashes into him. Viola's fingers are clutching at his shirt, her legs are wound around his waist. She has her face pressed into his neck and he can feel a dampness that's too much to only be tears.

"What happened?" It's pitch black in the cell. Sherlock can't see and he can't use his hands to feel. All he knows is that there is blood and that he's absolutely useless to the girl crying in his lap.

He's never felt more helpless in his life.

Viola falls asleep due to exhaustion after a while. Sherlock stays awake for the rest of the night. He has to keep watch. He has to keep her safe.

Logically he knows there's not a single thing he can do if Patryk comes back. Logic is not at the forefront of his mind right now, though.

So he tries to curl his own body around the girl as much as possible. An illusion of security. It's better than nothing.

* * *

"Patryk left today. He said he needed something from the city," Viola informs him one morning.

Unusual behaviour. He hasn't changed his routine since they arrived so many days or weeks ago.

What day is it? What month? Is it Christmas already?

* * *

No one comes to collect the girl that evening. Sherlock wants to hope they gave up and just left them here to rot. It would certainly be kinder than the alternative.

But Patryk won't abandon his quest. He'll hold Sherlock here until he receives word from Moran or sees an official death certificate. Neither is going to happen. He will have to stay here and wait and hope his brother knows what he's doing.

It shouldn't have taken more than a week.

Something went wrong.

Mycroft has to come. He always does.

 _'Please,'_ Sherlock begs silently. _'Please Mycroft, please!'_

* * *

"When you go home, will you take me with you?" Viola asks shyly, hopefully, after two days without a sighting of Patryk. She's in Sherlock's lap, her cheek pressed over his heart. For her it's still a question of _when_ , not _if_. Sherlock desperately hopes she's right. The answer, however, is obvious.

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"I promise," Sherlock whispers into her hair and places a ghost of a kiss on her temple. He can feel her smile against his chest.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

* * *

A guard Sherlock hasn't seen before comes and takes the girl away the next day.

He doesn't see her again for another three, but he knows immediately that things are different when she returns on the fourth. Someone has patched her up. She's clean and wearing new clothes and even her curls are tamed and braided neatly.

"A new man arrived today," she announces once she's sure the new guard is out of earshot. "He speaks Polish, but he sounds different than Patryk and the others. Patryk said he's the 'Big Boss'."

Sherlock's heart flutters and his stomach twists itself into knots. This is either the best or the worst thing that could possibly happen.

"Did you see him?" he asks. His voice shakes, but he doesn't care. Oh, dear God, _please_. Viola nods. "What did he look like?"

"He's tall," she begins and frowns. "He was wearing a big coat and a hat with fur. I think his hair was a bit red, but I couldn't really see it. Oh, but he had a huge nose!"

Sherlock could cry from the sheer joy. He's never been more pleased to have his bastard of a brother with his enormous, pointy nose so close.


	3. Chapter 3

**Per Aspera Ad Astra – Chapter III**

* * *

Everything moves quickly after Mycroft's initial arrival. He is brought in by a guard to see the prisoner and a moment later the shouting and shooting starts. The idiot guard runs out immediately and Sherlock sighs in relief when he sees the relaxation of his brother's shoulders.

It's done. Over. Finished. Time to go ho-

The door crashes open again and Sherlock's heart sinks as Patryk storms in, dragging Viola along by one thin, bruised arm. The girl is pushed aside and lands on her hand and knees. Sherlock tries to pay attention to both his brother and the man who is, quite possibly, going to kill them all. He fails horribly until Viola is on her feet again and standing behind him, pressing her small body close to his.

"Mr Holmes the elder," Patryk grins as he trains his gun on Mycroft's chest. "How nice of you to join our little party."

Mycroft smiles back tensely. Their identities were supposed to be kept private. There has to be a leak somewhere. That's what he gets for trusting his bloody brother with anything, Sherlock thinks angrily. He knows it isn't really Mycroft's fault, but after weeks of suffering he just can't bring himself to make the distinction anymore.

"Mr Wojciechowski. My people have this place surrounded. I must strongly advise you to lower your-"

Patryk throws his head back laughing. "We both know I won't make it out of here alive, Mr Holmes. And my last wish? For you to not make it either," he says with a little shrug and pulls the trigger.

The gun clicks and nothing happens.

"What-"

Mycroft reacts quickly and Patryk crumples down to the floor, unconscious, after a calculated blow to the side of his head. Mycroft bends down and fastens plactic restraints around the man's wrist before straightening again, brushing some dirt off his clothes with a disdainful sniff.

"Do you mind?" Sherlock asks mock-sweetly, jingling the shackles still chaining him to the wall.

Mycroft's attention shifts back to his brother, gaze darting over his weakened, battered body. He rips the keys from the chain dangling from Patryk's trousers and begins to unlock the stubborn, rusty cuffs around Sherlock's wrists.

"Nice of you to finally show," Sherlock hisses and Mycroft purses his lips.

"There were some unforseen complications-"

"Yes, I figured," Sherlock interrupts, flexing his fingers as he stands up for the first time in... ages. "What date is it?"

"Boxing day," Mycroft says absently and reaches for his brother, who stumbles back out of reach. That earns him a concerned-annoyed-confused raise of an eyebrow. He steels himself and lets Mycroft run his hands along his face, over his shoulders and down his sides. He's been worrying, Sherlock realises in surprise. That's unexpected. The complications must have been more than a bit not good - damn it, John! _John!_ \- for Mycroft to show actual emotion. It's disgustingly odd and not at all something Sherlock wants to experience again any time soon.

He steps away, shrugging the other man off. Mycroft seems to snap out of big brother mode and slips back into his usual cold, calculating politician persona. They both stare at the other for a long moment. Sherlock gives a curt nod, _thank you for coming to get me_ , and Mycroft returns the gesture with a slight inclination of his head, _you're welcome, brother_.

"A team is waiting," Mycroft says, clearing his throat to dispel any lingering remnants of brotherly... whatever, Sherlock is too exhausted to even be snide. A shame, really. "You've had quite enough of Eastern Europe for one lifetime, I imagine," he drawls and taps his ear, listening in for any updates on their situation.

"You think?" Sherlock snorts sarcastically. He acompanies the sound with an elaborate eye-roll, simply because he can and the attitude makes Mycroft seethe quietly where he stands talking to his men via the radio connection.

Sherlock lets him deal with the technicalities of their escape and turns to face Viola instead. She's crouching in the far corner of the cell, shivering and trembling. Ah. Yes. Guns being pointed at people, other people getting beaten up. Not the most ideal situation for a child to find herself in.

"Come here," Sherlock urges and holds out a hand towards her, beckoning her closer. The girl heaves a relieved sigh and scrambles over to him, colliding with his legs in her rush to attach herself to the only person she has come to associate with anything other than pain over the last couple of weeks.

The movement catches Mycroft's eye and he turns to face the two of them. He doesn't need to say a single thing, Sherlock knows what he's thinking simply by looking at his brother. He's going to tell him that he can't take Viola. He's going to tell him that Viola can't come. He's going to take her away or, worse, leave her here.

And that just won't do. Not at all. Sherlock promised. He has to take her home. He _wants_ to take her home.

"Sherlock-" Mycroft starts, but he doesn't get very far, silenced by a withering glare from the younger man.

Viola looks from one brother to the other. Confused and scared. The arms she's slung around Sherlock's legs tighten, a silent plea not to leave her. He couldn't. He _wouldn't_. Sherlock places a hand on her head, trying to offer some comfort and reassurance, which is when he notices what the girl's holding in her hands. He smirks.

"Viola," he starts and she tears her suspicious eyes away from Mycroft to look up at him. "Show me what you've got there," he says and holds out his own hand, palm up, for her to drop the small objects into. Six shells that should, for all intents and purpose, have been in the gun to shoot Mycroft.

"Bulletproof vest," Mycroft, the annoying prick, points out smugly.

Sherlock sneers at him. "Would still have hurt," he spits angrily and bends down to pick the girl up. She's startled by the motion at first, but leans into him after a moment, the fingers of one hand curling into the too long hair at the nape of his neck. Sherlock can feel the wounds on his back reopen. He ignores the pain, settling Viola against his side with one hand under her bum for support.

"Daddy taught me how to do that," she admits guiltily. It's still baffling to Sherlock that Jim was the one so insistent on keeping her far away from his life of crime and violence. It's so utterly unexpected. But then again, all of it is. _She_ is.

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighs. He sounds resigned, tired even. But not convinced. Yet.

Sherlock adjusts his grip on the girl and turns slightly so she's facing the other man. "Viola, tell my brother here your last name, would you?"

Mycroft frowns, though he doesn't say anything. He's listening. Good.

"Viola?" Sherlock prompts again, using his free hand to brush a wayward curl away from her forehead. She smiles at him then, a bright, full-grown smile that makes his heart swell, and nods.

"Hello," she says, looking back at Mycroft and extending her hand. Mycroft's eyebrows jump up in surprise and Sherlock has to suppress the grin threatening to break free. It wouldn't do to antagonise his brother now. "My name is Viola Moriarty, it's very nice to meet you, sir."

Sherlock snorts at the politeness. "No need for that. And I believe it would be civil to offer introductions yourself now, brother dear."

Mycroft blinks, once, twice, three times in rapid succession. The situation is rather unsuspected, Sherlock has to give him that. It doesn't make the sight of his brother rendered completely speechless any less enjoyable, though.

Finally, after a moment needed to gather himself, Mycroft remembers his manners - priggishness, if one was to ask Sherlock - and takes the proffered hand, giving it a light shake. "Mycroft Holmes. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms Moriarty."

Viola grins, seemingly satisfied, and snuggles closer to Sherlock, who raises a smug eyebrow at his flabbergasted brother.

"Follow me," Mycroft sighs again and leads the way back into freedom.

* * *

The doctor who greets them at the door of the private clinic looks extremely displeased to be there. Understandable, since it's nearing ten in the evening and Sherlock can only guess what Mycroft did to summon him there and ensure his silence.

"Doctor Nowak," Mycroft greets him, completely ignoring the man's chagrin. "We appreciate your coming and discretion."

It sounds more like a threat than actual gratitude. Doctor Nowak seems to realise that too and purses his lips, but gestures for the trio plus Anthea and several of Mycroft's team to follow inside.

The situation goes awry the moment a nurse steps up to them and tries to take Viola for a check-up. The girl begins to scream and cry as soon as she understands what the woman is up to, clinging to Sherlock with all her strength. She doesn't calm down for nearly half an hour, flinching away from everyone she doesn't know with her face buried in Sherlock's neck and her hands gripping the back of his shirt.

Mycroft _and_ Sherlock _and_ Doctor Nowak _and_ the nurse all have to promise over and over again that no one is going to take her away before she lets anyone examine her. In silent agreement, they decide to simultaniously treat Sherlock in the same room in order to prevent another meltdown. Viola eyes them critically when they draw the partition, but allows it after a tense moment where it looks like she's going to cry again.

Sherlock, now lying face down on a cold examination table, has to clench his teeth to keep himself from moving. Or shouting. It has less to do with the pain from his back being treated and more with the fact that he can still hear Viola sniffling from the other side of the curtain. His mood doesn't improve when Mycroft comes to join him, sitting down on a stool by his head.

"What is it you're trying to achieve here, Sherlock?" he asks and crosses his legs at the ankles.

"Getting stitched up," Sherlock deadpans, which earns him one of his brother's long suffering sighs. He smirks at the sound of it.

Mycroft lowers his voice for the next part. "That," he says, nodding his head in Viola's general direction, "is a traumatised little girl in desperate need of care and attention, not a pet or an experiment you can discard whenever it starts to bore you."

"I am well aware, thank you," Sherlock snaps angrily, shooting his brother a scathing look.

"You are in no way equipped to-"

Sherlock shooes away the doctor with a dismissive wave of his hand. He pulls himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the pain in his back, and starts putting on the fresh clothes Anthea provided for him. "I am taking Viola back to London," he hisses, never ceasing his glaring. "I am taking her back to Baker Street and, frankly, I couldn't care less about your opinion on the subject."

"She is not a replacement for Valérie, Sherlock," Mycroft goes on, hand shooting out to grab Sherlock's elbow before he can whirl away. "She's not here as a therapy prop for you to use in another doomed to fail attempt to-"

"Do not psychoanalyse me, Mycroft!" Sherlock hollers and the room falls eerily quiet. "This has nothing to do with Valérie!" It's a lie and they both know it. Neither mentions it. "Now do something useful for once and take us home."

Mycroft looks shocked, which gives Sherlock a wicked sort of pleasure as he yanks back the curtain and strolls over to Viola and the nurse, who's wearing an equally upset expression.

"Are you done?" he snarles and the woman nods, taking a few steps back. He's suddenly afraid of Viola's reaction to his little outburst, but the girls latches on to him immediately and allows him to pull her close with a content hum.

They don't speak on the way to the airfield. Mycroft is quietly conversing with Anthea while Sherlock stares out into the night. Viola fell asleep against him shortly after the car took off, head tucked under his chin.

"I will draw up the papers for temporary guardianship," Mycroft announces into the silence. Sherlock frowns at him, suspicion written all over his face. "Temporary, Sherlock. We don't know who she is, we know near to nothing about where she came from. I can't make any promises-"

"Thank you," Sherlock interrupts him, tightening his hold on the sleeping girl. He sees Mycroft smile faintly at the gesture and quickly averts his eyes, opting to look out of the window again.

"You're welcome," Mycroft says softly and Sherlock huffs at him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Per Aspera Ad Astra - Chapter IV**

* * *

London hasn't changed all that much. The same streets and alleys, allowing Sherlock to manoeuvre easily through the city without being seen by too many people. A shadow in the night.

The new phone vibrates against his thigh, but is resolutely ignored. Only one person is in possession of this new number, the same person who gave him the mobile in the first place. And hearing Mycroft demand that he must come to his senses and stay at the manor, at least until the news of his being officially alive has been made public, is the last thing Sherlock needs right now.

A three hour flight is more than enough time spent in his brother's company. Quite enough time to get an update on everyone as well.

John was the first, of course. Opened his own practice half a year back. Doing moderately well. String of one-night stands. Never anything serious. About to take a much needed holiday, if his credit card statements are anything to go by. Away at a medical conference in Dublin for the week, escaping the holiday cheer. The benefits of the medical profession; there's always work, people are always ill.

Sherlock briefly considers texting, but even he has to admit that announcing yourself to be newly 'not dead' is best done face to face. It irks him, though, not being able to go to John first. His friend. _Best_ friend. He has missed John. Every time he caught himself talking to an empty hotel room. Every time he looked over his shoulder during a chase, only to realise that he was running after a criminal all by himself. Every time he was fumbling with another stitch that would be crooked and leave another scar. Another mark of a time he very badly never wants to think about.

The nearby church bells chime just as he turns into the street that is his destination. Two-thirty on a Tuesday morning. Mrs Hudson would be asleep right now, knocked right out by her 'evening soother'. Sherlock wonders if she's going to slap or hug him once he goes to see her. Probably both. The thought makes him smile to himself.

He stops a couple of steps away from the house he's last been in years ago. During withdrawal, sweating and sobbing and hurting. There are no lights on in the flat on the third floor and he shifts from one foot to the other, considering. Either asleep or still down at the Yard. Both are equally likely, given the serial abductor presently on the loose. He read up on current events on the plane. Ridiculously transparent case. The first victim's former employer clearly wasn't completely truthful about his alibi.

A sleepy murmur catches his attention and Sherlock adjusts his grip on the warm bundle pressed against his side. Viola's stubby little nose wrinkles as she snuffles into his neck, one tiny hand curling tighter into his shirt while the thumb of the other is sucked a bit deeper between slightly parted, pouty lips.

It is a marvel, the amount of trust the small human in his arms has bestowed upon him. Sleeping, wrapped up in an almost stranger's coat, utterly vulnerable and devastatingly helpless. He can feel her heartbeat against his own chest, calm and steady. A cheek, turned red by the cold, nestled against his shoulder. Rhythmic, subconscious twitches of the fingers on his back. Breaths puffing against the exposed skin of his throat.

Sherlock tips his head, resting his own cheek on top of the girl's chocolate curls. She hums approvingly at the contact and something in his chest tightens painfully. It feels constricting.

Deciding that it isn't the right time to dive into the overflowing pool of his unexplored and repressed emotions, he straightens back up and closes the final distance between himself and the front door to ring the bell. No answer, no lights flickering on, no movement; the man in question is still at work. Which is just as well, Sherlock decides and pushes, rolling his eyes when the door turns out to be unlocked. He quickly makes his way up the stairs, coming to a halt in front of flat 3H.

After a brief glance up and down the hall to make sure that they are, in fact, alone, Sherlock whips out the long leather case holding his tools and flicks it open. Crouching is awkward with a sleeping child practically plastered against his side. He is working out the logistics when Viola stirs. He looks down just in time to see her blink open those deep, dark brown eyes.

Sherlock lifts a finger and presses it against his lips before mouthing _'shush'_ at her. Confused, the girl cranes her neck, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Her gaze darts from his face to the tacky floral wallpaper to the lock picking utensils in his gloved hand. Spotting those, she grins, gives him a thumbs-up and allows herself to be set down next to him.

Getting the lock to click open is a thing of mere seconds and they silently slip inside.

"Who lives here?" Viola asks, voice barely even a whisper.

"An old friend," Sherlock murmurs absently, sliding out of his suit jacket and throwing it over the back of a chair on his way to the kitchen. He fills the kettle and flicks it on.

The girl nods and trails after him, dragging the too long Belstaff along the floor, much like the train on a wedding dress.

Sherlock picks her up automatically and stands her on the counter for easier access. "Tell me about the person who lives here," he urges as he begins to peel her out of the heavy fabric, his broken, bandaged fingers fumbling with the buttons.

Viola visibly perks up at the mention of her favourite game, all traces of tiredness gone in the blink of an eye. Sherlock hurries with the undressing, suddenly assaulted by images of her falling and hurting herself in her giddy excitement, and places her back on his hip.

Huh. That is fast becoming... _normal_. Feeling her weight settle against himself is oddly reassuring. Comforting.

"It's a man," Viola exclaims, pointing at the shoes by the door and the coats on the rack.

Sherlock shakes himself, turning them towards the sitting room. "What else?"

"He wants to call someone called _Jackie_ , but he never gets around to it," she continues, gesturing at the notepad and the phone on the coffee table. "He wrote it down with two exclamation marks and later added a third one and then even underlined it. He used different pens."

"Who's Jackie?" Sherlock pushes, hiding his pleased smile by relocating the girl to his other side.

Viola's brows knit together in concentration as she looks around the room, chewing her bottom lip. "Oh, I know!" she blurts after a moment, grinning smugly. "There are pictures of a girl, but they are old. So she's all grown up now and doesn't live with him anymore and he misses her. Jackie is his daughter."

It's more of a guess than an actual deduction, but Sherlock can't help the smile from curving up his lips. He ignores the voice telling him that he didn't have any part in the development of the skill and, therefore, has no right to feel proud. He's a master at ignoring things he doesn't want to see. Mycroft says it's an 'unfortunate talent' of his.

The kettle beeps its readiness and Sherlock moves back to the kitchen, searching the cupboards for cups and tea.

"Did I get it right?" the girl demands impatiently, wearing the most hopeful expression. Sherlock doubts he could have told her even if she'd been wrong. Which is odd. He doesn't usually have a problem with correcting people, quite the opposite.

"If the man who lives here were half as clever as you are, London would be a much safer place."

That earns him a completely blank expression. "So... that's a yes?"

"Yes," he chuckles and Viola beams at him from where he's sat her down on the table, swinging her legs and curling her toes.

He prepares his own tea and only when he stares at the second cup does he wonder if children are supposed to have caffeine in the middle of the night. The most likely answer is definitely a big _no_ , since children are supposed to be asleep in the middle of the night. But her sleeping schedule, if she's ever had one, is buggered up anyway, so does it really matter? God, he needs-

 _No._ He's going to be just fine, thank you very much. The man has no idea he's even alive and once he does find out, there are probably going to be more pressing matters than tea. Then again, tea always seems to be a priority of John's.

Sherlock smiles as he adds sugar to his own steaming cup and pours half of Viola's down the drain, filling it up with a generous amount of cream instead.

The girl accepts the beverage, but sniffs it before taking a tentative sip. Smart girl, Sherlock thinks and pulls out his mobile. Twelve missed calls and eight messages from Mycroft. Delete. He is in the middle of checking John's blog for any updates when a grumble startles him, almost causing him to drop the mobile.

"Sorry," Viola mumbles, eyes downcast and one hand pressed against her stomach.

Sherlock frowns. Why is she apologising? "Why are you apologising?"

"Because I get to eat when Patryk say I can eat and not when I fancy it?" She makes it sound like a question, immediately popping a thumb into her mouth once the words are out.

That explains her malnourished state. Sherlock reaches out without a second thought, to touch her shoulder or brush through her hair, he doesn't actually know. Instincts. But the girl flinches away and then freezes, looking terrified. Expecting punishment.

Sherlock successfully suppresses the urge to cringe and swallows down the unexpected anger at that new piece of information. "Go check the fridge."

Viola doesn't move, watches him warily instead.

"If you're hungry, you tell me and we find something for you to eat. I'm not good with 'bodily needs', so you'll have to tell me if you require nutrition. Otherwise I'm certain to forget," he lectures, figuring that giving her permission to ask for something is the best way to approach the problem. Or certainly not the worst one. He's painfully out of his depth here. "Okay?" he asks when he gets no answer, he quirks an eyebrow and puts on what he hopes is a friendly smile.

"'Kay," Viola nods. She clambers down to the floor and crosses the room, keeping her back to the door and her eyes on him at all times.

It hurts, Sherlock realises with an uncomfortable tightening of his chest. Her mistrust, her fear. Logically he knows the reasons, even knows the trigger. They met under highly unconventional circumstances, thrown together by chance. Removed from these original surroundings now it's only natural for the girl to be unsure, to not know what to expect. Sherlock scowls at nothing in particular, absently stirring his tea. He knows it's not him Viola's afraid of. It's far too easy to make conclusions as to what must have happened in a similar situation with Patryk.

Sherlock sighs and rubs his free hand through his hair. How much time is it going to take for her to work through this sort of trauma? Does one work through it, is that at all possible? And what's he supposed to do, how is he supposed to help? Can he help? Something cold settles in the pit of his stomach at the thought that, maybe, there isn't anything he can do to help her move on, to help her forget.

He has to make this better. He doesn't know why, he doesn't care how. He only knows, without a doubt, that he has to do everything in his power to keep Viola as safe and as happy as humanly possible. No matter what it takes, no matter what the consequences are. It's in that moment Sherlock does the single most selfless thing he's ever done in his life without even realising it. He vows to put a little girl's needs in front of his own because he knows couldn't bear to see her beautiful spirit wilt and wither.

Somehow, in the span of only a few weeks of knowing her, Sherlock has come to think of Viola as something to be treasured. As something precious. He isn't going to let go. He is going to fight.

She's _his_.

"Sherlock?"

His attention snaps back into the present. Viola's staring up at him, nibbling at some kind of raw sausage. Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the choice and the girl grins and takes a bigger bite. He sniffs, eyeing the thing with a great level of disdain and a grimace, which only causes her grin to widen.

Sherlock is momentarily confused when she reaches out, but catches on quickly and picks her up. She gives a satisfied hum and rubs her cheek against his, the incident from only minutes earlier seemingly already forgotten.

On the way back to the sitting room he picks up their teas one-handed. Viola is deposited on the sofa and after realising he's got nothing better to do until the actual resident arrives home, Sherlock joins her and turns on the telly. They bicker about the programmes, agreeing on a deep sea documentary which Viola thinks is fascinating and Sherlock deems partially acceptable.

It's nearly an hour later, both of them too absorbed in the show to hear the key in the lock, when Gregory Lestrade steps through the door and lets out a string of colourful curses at the sight of the man he thought dead for the past two years.


	5. Chapter 5

**Per Aspera Ad Astra – Chapter V**

* * *

"Oh, you bastard!"

Sherlock scowls at Lestrade's approaching form, torn between amusement and irritation. "Not in front of the- _uff_ ," he manages to wheeze out, suddenly finding himself in a crushing and bordering on seriously painful embrace.

Ah, yes. He had forgotten how... demonstrative Lestrade could be with his affections. Awkwardly, Sherlock pats the other man's shoulders and winces when he returns the gesture, irritating the freshly stitched up gashes on his own back.

"You fucking bastard," Lestrade chokes out and his grip tightens even more. He presses a lingering kiss to Sherlock's temple, unbothered that he has to stand up on tiptoes to do so, and settles one hand on the nape of his neck to prevent him from stepping back. "Don't ever do this to me again, do you hear? Don't ever put me, don't ever put _us_ , through this again. Fucking hell, what were you thinking?"

Sherlock squirms and after another moment or two, Lestrade reluctantly allows him to move away, but not before placing another brief kiss on his forehead. He does keep his hands on Sherlock's upper arms, though, as if scared he might vanish otherwise.

"Lestrade," Sherlock says placatingly. "I can explain-"

"You bloody well better!" Lestrade snaps at him, his thumbs digging into Sherlock's deltoid muscles with surprising strength.

"I-" he begins, but Lestrade suddenly shakes his head and pulls him close again, burying his face in the crook of the taller man's neck.

This time, Sherlock is a little more ready for it. Tentatively, he brings his own arms up and around the other man. He leans into the embrace and squeezes a bit, presses his face into Lestrade's hair and takes a few deep breaths.

Lestrade smells like ink and gun oil and cigarettes and that dreadful aftershave he insists on using. Lestrade smells _safe_.

He is sleepless nights spent shivering and shouting. He is late night phone calls and drives out to the shadier parts of London. He is a shoulder to lean on, a steady hand on an elbow and gentle fingers in sweat-soaked curls.

The Holmes family has never been particularly close. There were no family dinners or conversations about school or evenings spent in front of the telly. No being tucked-in at night, no hugs and no declarations of feelings. The Holmes family has always been all about keeping up appearances for people who were just as damaged and broken and imperfect as them.

Sherlock wouldn't go as far as to call Lestrade a father figure, given the father he had, that would be an insult. But he is something. Someone. A colleague. A confidant. _A friend_.

And suddenly, a massive wave of guilt crashes over Sherlock. It's so abrupt and overwhelming, his knees almost give out. He grabs Lestrade harder, pulls him closer and hugs him tighter with a noise that's embarrassingly close to a choked-off sob.

"Hey, come on," the older man soothes and gives his neck a reassuring squeeze. "You're back, you're alive. It's all right, yeah? I got you. I got you, sunshine."

"Don't," is all Sherlock manages in answer to the old nickname and it comes out more as a snort than the intended warning. He can feel Lestrade chuckle against him and his lips twist up into responding smile.

Lestrade moves away again, but only half a step, and rests their foreheads together. "You better have a damn good reason for lying like this," he sighs as he rubs his thumbs over Sherlock's cheeks and down to his neck. "Bastard," he adds affectionately and with a little relieved laugh.

Sherlock merely nods. Doesn't trust his voice, knows it'd be all squeaky and wrong. Dear lord, he doesn't even want to think of the reaction John is going to provoke if Lestrade has him worked-up and flustered like this already. Not that he doesn't count the seconds until the doctor gets back. Because he does.

It's Viola who breaks the tender moment with a yawn.

Lestrade freezes, shoves Sherlock's head out of his line of sight and stares. For a good long moment. Without blinking.

"Is... is she yours?" he ask once he finally manages to pull himself together and tear his eyes away from the girl to gape at the detective instead.

"Yes," Sherlock says firmly and tries for a subtle eye-swipe, hoping the other man is too occupied with his discovery to realise what he's doing.

"Really?" Lestrade sounds and even looks doubtful, eyebrows almost disappearing in his now even more silvery hairline. "I mean... _really?_ "

Well, Sherlock frowns at him, that's a bit insulting, isn't it? He is a healthy, thirty-seven year old male equipped with the necessary biological parts to produce offspring. Surely it can't be such an alien thought that, in almost four decades, he would have practiced sexual intercourse at least once? Mycroft with his ridiculous taunt, honestly, who'd ever believe that?

Lestrade rolls his eyes at him. "I may be an idiot in your books, but I do notice some things. Like your preference for men?" he offers and yes, that's a fair point actually. "And you hardly lead a lifestyle that invites an adoption. So excuse me for being a tiny bit surprised."

"There were... unusual circumstances," Sherlock shrugs and sniffs. "She has been given into my care. For the time being, at least." Not that he has any intention of letting his brother, or anyone else, take her again. That is a matter for another day, however.

"Okay, that's nice," Lestrade says and smiles, walking over to join Viola on the sofa.

"Nice? _Nice?_ " Sherlock follows, perching on the arm next to the girl.

"Well, yeah. Isn't it?" Lestrade asks, but his attention is mostly on Viola now, who watches him with big, curios eyes. Sherlock's secretly pleased when she slides a bit closer to him and grabs a handful of his trousers, though.

"Viola, Lestrade," he says and does the according hand gesture. "Lestrade, this is Viola."

"Greg," Lestrade corrects, knowing full well Sherlock will never use his 'pedestrian' first name, and dutifully shakes the free hand Viola is already holding out. "How about some hot chocolate, eh?"

Sherlock can see she wants to say yes, but she looks up at him first and only after he nods in permission does she accept the offer.

"All right then," Lestrade gets up and claps his hand, starting off towards the kitchen. "I think there's even some of those mini marshmallows somewhere, how about it?"

Viola is delighted and Sherlock is instantly extremely jealous as he trails after them with narrowed eyes.

* * *

His bad mood only intensifies the longer the two of them chat over their steaming beverages. He refuses one, Lestrade calls him a stubborn idiot in reply and proceeds to ignore him while he answers Viola's questions about the 'gooiness' of wet marshmallows, police work and some insipid show on telly they both seem to like and he's never even heard of.

He glares at Lestrade's back as the man pulls out the sofa bed and goes to gather spare pillows and duvets and very nearly throws a lamp at his head when he makes Viola laugh with the stupid voices he does as he tells her a _bedtime story_. Honestly!

If he kisses her goodnight, Sherlock decides, he's going to steal more than his badge this time. But Lestrade only brushes a hand over her head and gets up, moving back to the kitchen and wearing a pointed yet somehow faintly amused and worryingly knowing expression on his face.

"He's nice," Viola announces as she settles down into a lying position and lets Sherlock cover her with one of the blankets.

Sherlock grunts and lowers himself to sit next to her. She rolls over immediately to lay her head on his thigh with a satisfied hum.

"He's all right," Sherlock concedes with a small smile, petting her curls. "Go to sleep, it's late."

"I think," the girl says, voice muffled by a yawn, "that four twenty-two in the morning is _early_."

"Don't be cheeky," Sherlock chuckles and can feel her grin against his leg. "Sleep well."

"You too," Viola yawns at him, eyes already half shut. Then, suddenly, they snap open again and search for his, looking scared. "Will you be here when I wake up?"

He's a bit thrown by that for a moment, although he really should have expected it after the events of the previous weeks. "Of course."

"Promise?"

"I promise," Sherlock nods in an exact imitation of their conversation back in Poland. "I'm not going anywhere without you. I will always be here," he vows and leans down to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

Viola hums sleepily and cuddles close against him. He waits another minute or two to collect himself and prepare for the pending conversation he'd rather not have right now, but knows is unavoidable. He gets up once the girl's breathing has evened out and carefully lifts her head to replace his leg with a pillow. After a short moment of consideration, he places another kiss on her forehead and gently brushed his thumb over her cheek before straightening up and joining Lestrade.

He does accept the cup the older man is holding out this time and mumbles something that could be interpreted as thanks, flopping down into an empty chair.

"All right," Lestrade says, props his elbows on the small kitchen table and rests his chin on his fists. "Talk."

And Sherlock does. He begins with Moriarty's plan to completely discredit him and waves away a blushing Lestrade's apology for arresting him. He tells him about the snipers and doesn't mention the sudden wetness of the other man's eyes. He talks about two years of searching and hunting and doesn't object to the comforting hand placed on his arm. He ends with his captivity and briefly considers lying about Viola's origin, but doesn't leave out a single thing in the end.

Lestrade can be trusted and, frankly, Sherlock is sick and tired of being quiet, of being alone and _lonely_.

"Jesus," Lestrade breathes and scrubs his face with both hands, but otherwise takes the news in stride. "Well, thanks for saving my arse, I guess," he grins sheepishly before sobering quickly again. "Makes sense, the way you tell it. Though you could have found a way to let us know you weren't dead. Fuck, Sherlock, we mourned you, we grieved for you."

"It was too dangerous," Sherlock disagrees, shaking his head vehemently. "You were still being watched, even after the snipers were taken care of. It was too much of a risk, one I was not willing to take."

Lestrade groans tiredly. "Yeah, all right. Yeah. Okay, I get that. I think. But that doesn't mean I'm not still so fucking pissed at you, you fucking prick!"

They regard each other for a good, long moment. Sherlock isn't sure what else to say. He won't apologise, not when, for once in his life, he's sure that he's done the right thing in putting the life as he knew it to a halt in order to ensure the safety of the people he cares about.

"What about her, then? Viola?" Lestrade breaks the silence, craning his neck to watch the sleeping girl in the other room. "What's the plan?"

Sherlock's brows draw together in confusion. He tilts his head and sucks his lower lip between his teeth. Plan? Viola is staying and that's the end of it. Has he missed some-

"I mean," Lestrade chuckles, "the general plan? As in, what about other family members? Do you know anything about a mother? Where are you going to stay? What about school? You know, _parent stuff_."

Parent stuff.

He hadn't thought about it like that before. _Why_ hadn't he thought about it like that before?

As soon as Mycroft has organised the required documents and arranged everything with the authorities, he will, for all intents and purposes, be the parent to a-

"I don't know how old she is," Sherlock realises with a shocked gasp.

Unforgiveable oversight.

How could he not know? What else doesn't he know? What _does_ he know?

The realisation hits him with the force of a train at full speed. "I have no idea what to do," he admits quietly, working the words out around the painful tightness of his throat.

He can't do this.

"Don't worry, it'll be fine. You can do this," Lestrade says gently, patting his arm before drawing back to take their cups to the sink. Sherlock's head snaps up to him at that. That 'having your mind read' thing is slightly disconcerting, being on the other end of it for once. "If you want to, that is. You can still change your mind. She's cute and clever, I'm sure it wouldn't be much of a bother to find a family willing to take her in and-"

"No!" Sherlock interrupts quickly. Too quickly, he realises when he sees the smug grin spread across his friend's face.

"Didn't think so. It's sweet, you know, to see you like this," Lestrade teases and seems to only grow more amused at the dark glare directed at him. "Seriously though, you'll figure it out. Hell, I managed to raise a child with my 'inferior intellect', so you'll do just splendidly."

"That _is_ true," Sherlock says seriously, earning himself a flick of soapy water to the face. "Immature, Lestrade," he complains as he stands, swiping at the offending wet spot on his cheek.

"You'll live," the other man assesses, waving a dismissive hand at him. "Get some sleep, you look like crap."

Sherlock doesn't even dignify that with an answer and retreats to the sitting room instead, arranging a few of the pillows so he can sit comfortably next to the peacefully sleeping girl. He has no intention of doing the same, there is too much new data, too much to consider and think about. He fishes out his phone and begins reading up on what Mycroft's team managed to extract from Moran so far.

He blinks, once, twice and the next thing he knows he's lying flat on his back, mobile stuck between the cushions, with Viola sprawled across his chest and a blanket tangled around his legs almost six hours later.

Curiously, he finds that he doesn't have the slightest inclination to move.


	6. Chapter 6

**Per Aspera Ad Astra - Chapter VI**

* * *

Sherlock only moves from the sofa once his bladder makes itself known. He gently eases Viola off his chest and rolls her to the side, pulling the covers back over her small frame.

She blinks open two bleary eyes at the movement, squinting up at him. "Hullo," she mumbles sleepily, reaching for him again with uncoordinated hands, not yet fully awake.

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock whispers, but slides closer indulgently and lets her curl up against him, wrapping one arm around her. She yawns and rubs her cheek against his collarbone with quiet, content murmurs.

"I'm not tired," Viola protests even as her speech grows heavier, the words slurred ever so slightly. "You're warm," she hums and begins to squirm until she's up high enough to nuzzle her face into his neck, the cold tip of her nose coming to rest in the hollow beneath Sherlock's jaw.

The detective rolls his eyes at the weakness of the lie. He can't help the warmth spreading through his chest, though. He allows himself a moment to rub his nose through soft, dark-brown curls and inhale deeply, letting the scent that's rapidly becoming familiar wash over him. Sherlock has always attached a great deal of importance to smells. They're vital for his work, able to tell him how long a body has been lying out in the rain or that a wife is cheating on her husband with the man delivering the gardenias. But they're also of a more personal use.

Mycroft, for example, is expensive cologne, exquisite brandy and the occasional cigarette. If the tobacco smell grows stronger and the cologne fades, he's stressed, on edge. And if the brandy is replaced with cheap wine, then Sherlock starts worrying and does things like pouring every bottle of alcohol he can find in his brother's house down the toilet.

Smells are spies, gathering information for him and warning him the moment something changes.

Something like John carrying around a more prominent 'freshness', for lack of a better word. It happens - _used to happen_ , Sherlock's mind tries to correct and is stubbornly ignored - when he feels insecure, unnoticed, small. He showers twice a day, becomes almost pedantic with his personal hygiene, his shaving and grooming. It's then, usually, that Sherlock starts placing the odd cup of tea by his elbow or suggesting one of the doctor's favourite restaurants or lying about interesting cases in favour of staying in, watching telly and sipping beers. Small things, domestic things that warp and shift their lives, just a bit, until John's security is re-established and Sherlock finds the acquainted scent of Earl Grey, wool, soap and sweat again when he's accidentally - not accidentally at all - standing too close for the action to be decent.

Not that John notices. He never does. Or chooses not to comment and to ignore instead. Sherlock doesn't know which option riles him more and quickly steers his thoughts away from the topic of his friend. He has learned how to prevent falling into the John-shaped hole left inside himself after his departure, how to shut everything off and out and _away_. For a short while, at least. Not permanently. Never permanently. The relief, the rush and the dizzying joy of revelling in those memories is a thing he wouldn't voluntarily miss for any prolonged period of time.

Change of topic. Off, out and away.

"Viola," Sherlock whispers quietly, but the girl is fast asleep once again. He parts reluctantly, finally unable to keep ignoring the insistent pleas of his biology, and moves to the bathroom. In a fit of uncharacteristic empathy, he is careful not to create too much noise and allows the two other people in the small flat some more rest.

He scoffs at himself after realising just that, quickly forgetting everything, though, as the hot water hits his face. There is a moment of discomfort at the first contact with his back, but otherwise the shower is pure bliss.

Lestrade's shampoo is unmistakably and distastefully masculine instead of neutral and faint. Sherlock almost gets an eyeful of the dark blue liquid when the bathroom door bangs open and loudly crashes against the tiled wall.

"Sherlock?" Viola is panting, her voice thin and hopeful.

Huh.

"Yes?"

She hesitates, then Sherlock can hear her climb up on the closed toilet seat. "I thought you were gone," she confesses as a tiny hand creeps past the curtain and under the warm, steady stream.

The guilt is crushing. He told her he would be there in the morning. He promised her and he failed. It seems insignificant amongst all the other things he needs to worry about at the moment, but he can't help it. He hurries up, dressing in Lestrade's bathrobe when he climbs out of the tub. Not that Sherlock has any sense for modesty, but he isn't totally sure how appropriate it is to flounce around in the nude with a small child in the same room. Common sense tells him it's probably considered weird, at the very least.

The image of sharing a bath with his brother in days _thankfully_ long past flies into his head completely unbidden, causing a full body shiver and a grimace of disgust.

Meanwhile, Viola watches him with rapt attention, eyes never leaving him in fear of him leaving if they do. Sherlock wants to reassure, to comfort. He has no idea how, other than saying the words again. So he does, to his own surprise, his repetition-hating self be damned.

"If something occurs which requires me to leave, I will either take you with me or inform you where I am going and when, approximately, I can be expected to return," he says, crouched in front of the girl to bring them on eye-level. He holds out one hand and quirks an eyebrow. "Deal?"

"Okay," the girl agrees and takes the offered hand with a beaming smile that Sherlock answers automatically, even if a bit more sedated.

He reaches over her into the tub to push the plug into position and turn on the water again. There is some bubble bath in the corner and he pours in a generous amount, watching Viola's eyes widen in awed delight. "Come on, then."

The first item of clothing, a sock, hits him square in the face. The others follow with equal enthusiasm so the whole undressing part ends up taking less than a minute.

No shame or modesty on her part, Sherlock notices and files that away for further investigation. Are there books or internet forums for such things? _'How to successfully bathe a child without getting accused of something unsavoury and illegal!'_ maybe?

His attention is soon captured by the thin silver chain around the girl's neck or, more precisely, the old-looking locket and small key hanging from it.

"Daddy and Daddy gave it to me," Viola explains, following his gaze. She picks up the locket and cradles it in one hand while using the other to flip it open. And there, right in front of Sherlock's eyes, lies Jim Moriarty's heart. He recognises Moran from their brief encounter during his capture, all six foot and six inches of deadly, insane assassin, right down to the angry red scar running down over his left eye and cheek. Only that, even after staring for a good, solid minute, Sherlock can't find any of the hatred or madness people always talk about, none of the fury and cold-hearted determination he himself has spotted during their encounter.

There is only affection. Forehead pressed against an equally different Moriarty's as they gaze lovingly at the small, sleeping bundle of pink skin and fluffy curls lying on the bed between their chests. Affection and warmth and family and _love_.

Sherlock snaps the locket shut and Viola startles, looks at him questioningly but, mercifully, remains silent. He wouldn't know what to say. This... it defies words.

"What about this?" the detective asks and pokes a finger against the key, releasing a relieved breath when the distraction works.

Viola shrugs one shoulder. "I don't know. Daddy gave it to me before he left me with Patryk." She shivers slightly. Sherlock isn't sure if it's from the memory of their shared tormentor or the steadily growing cold in the room and, frankly, he isn't sure he wants to know.

"Will you let me find out what it's for?" he asks, already going through his mental list of locksmiths in the area he can consult about this. Or maybe he should make Mycroft do it? Get him to do some leg work for once, that would be fun.

Viola nods and frowns at the key. "I guess. But I want it back after you're done with it."

Sherlock promises. The chain has to be removed carefully and placed into the safety of the cabinet before he's allowed to lift the girl up and place her in a tub full of foam and, presumably, some water. All that sticks out of the mountain of soapy bubbles is her grinning face before even that dives under with a loud, playful giggle.

Shoving unpleasant thoughts away for a second time that morning, Sherlock concentrates on preventing an excited, squealing girl from banging her head on the faucet instead. Which, as it turns out, is much harder than previously anticipated.

And a disturbingly slippery affair.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes unknowingly experiences his first 'parent moment' when he tries to wash a crying girl's hair. Or, to be more precise, when he tries to rinse shampoo drenched curls. Getting the shampoo onto the child hadn't been an issue, getting it off the child seems to be the problem here.

"It will hurt my eyes," Viola insists for the eighteenth time, batting at his hands while the tears still fall freely. That's the impressive part about all of this, Sherlock thinks with a sigh; her apparent ability to summon crocodile tears on a whim. The annoying part about the impressive part is that it actually works and makes him feel terrible and feeling terrible for trying to get her clean is just... _stupid_.

"You have to tip your head back," Sherlock explains, also for the eighteenth time, and demonstrates from his position kneeling on the floor.

Viola doesn't look convinced. At all.

"You have been splashing around in there for the last thirty minutes," he tries again, even though he suspects - knows - it's hopeless. "There is bubble bath and shampoo in the water you have been diving around in."

"Yes, but I closed my eyes," the girl says in a tone of voice he uses whenever people are especially moronic. The _'Duh!'_ is heavily implied, going by her unimpressed expression.

"Well, then you will have to close your eyes while we wash your hair, too."

She considers for a long moment, then shakes her head. "No, it will burn my eyes."

Sherlock groans and lowers his head to thump it against the rim of the tub.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft's people haven't been able to extract any useful Intel from Moran so far. The man doesn't talk, hasn't shown any reaction at all to their continuing presence and questions. Not even once they started applying the less socially acceptable interrogation techniques. He did manage to break one agents jaw, which, Sherlock grudgingly admits to himself, is fairly impressive if one considers the man is heavily restrained at all times.

The file doesn't give any indication as to what caused the burst of aggression. Typical. Amateurs, the whole lot of them. Leaving out the most crucial bit of information.

"Any plans for today?" Lestrade interrupts, merely rolling his eyes when that earns him one of the detective's flat, annoyed looks.

"Doctor's appointment," Sherlock sighs and puts down his phone. Apparently it's socialising time. Tedious. He adjusts Viola, who's standing on his thighs and looking over his shoulder, eyes following Lestrade as he putters around the kitchen.

Lestrade sets a steaming pot of something on the table in front of them, lifting the girl and, going by her amused squeal, twirling her around for a bit before placing her in an empty chair. "You could have told me you weren't well, you know," he says accusingly, obviously choosing his words with some caution due to the child's presence.

"I'm fine," Sherlock defends himself automatically. Lestrade levels him with a completely unperturbed look and cocks one silver eyebrow. "Fine-ish," Sherlock amends, shooting back an _'Are you satisfied now?'_ -glare.

Lestrade huffs, which means as much as _'No, not really.'_ , but drops the subject and begins loading the food - pasta with some kind of tomato sauce, _ugh_ \- onto plates.

"May I have Käse with mine? Bitte?"

Sherlock's head snaps up at Viola's request, eyes twinkling with interest. "German. This is new."

The girl grins proudly. "Nudeln mit Sauce und Käse."

"Don't tell my brother about this particular language skill," Sherlock warns, grinning right back. "He'll start raving about _Weisswürste_ and _Brezel_ and _Hefeweizen_. He has a sick passion for high-calorie foods and drinks."

Viola snickers, but Lestrade seems pained. Sherlock frowns, eyes darting over his features. Taking in. Assessing.

What- _oh!_ That is an unexpected turn of events. And more than a little disturbing.

"You can do better than _Mycroft_ , Lestrade," he sniffs and shudders a bit at the thought of his brother with Lestrade. Or anyone, really.

Lestrade glares. "Drop it," he grinds out. The hand holding his fork turns white-knuckled. His eyes crinkle, the edges of his mouth twitch downwards. He's hurt, Sherlock realises with a slight pang of discomfort.

"I implored him not to tell," he blurts out and _seriously?_ Why is he defending a relationship he doesn't condone? But then again, Lestrade is one of his weak spots, which is how this whole mess started in the first place. "I'm sure he would have confided in you had the situation been different. This is... it doesn't... it is no reflection of my brother's feelings for your or trust in you."

Lestrade stares at him and he looks mortified. Sherlock is sure his own expression is an exact copy of the other man's. The silence between them is more than a little awkward.

"Thank you," the Inspector finally says. He clears his throat and averts his eyes, staring down at his food. "That was, eh... nice of you to say? I think?"

"Yes, well," Sherlock mutters and fidgets with his own cutlery. "Let's never do this again, shall we?"

"God, no," Lestrade agrees. Their gazes meet again and suddenly it's too much. Lestrade cracks first, but Sherlock is close behind, laughing away the built up tension.

Viola looks from one man to the other, brows drawn together in confusion, before she obviously decides they've gone mad and goes back to eating.

"You ridiculous idiot," Lestrade pants, swiping at the corner of his eye. "I missed you, you nutter."


	7. Chapter 7

**Per Aspera Ad Astra - Chapter VII**

* * *

Molly texts back almost immediately. Somehow she manages to come across as nervous and insecure even via text. Sherlock is instantly annoyed and grumbles under his breath as he writes back what he needs and ignores her questions about his return, his health and other trivia he couldn't care less about if he tried.

He knows he should feel something besides irritation, should be grateful even, but he can't quite manage it. He's tense, about ready to snap and yell or shout or cry, and he doesn't know why. The mission is over, an overall success according to Mycroft. The web spun by a master criminal over the better part of two decades has been completely dismantled, reduced to nothing but ashes and dust. He's back in London, he's safe.

It's over.

Only, it isn't really, is it? Because being back doesn't equal being _home_ and being safe isn't the same as being _content_.

Sherlock is floating helplessly when the only thing he wants, he _needs_ , is to finally arrive. To stop and stay and be able to breathe again. And try as he might, he can't do it. He knows what's missing for him to settle and he knows there is a chance that's everything but slim that he won't get it.

He would be satisfied with the friendship they used to have before, he would accept an acquaintanceship with the occasional phone call or night at the pub and be glad about it, be thankful for it. He's not beyond begging for scraps and taking whatever is thrown his way.

The fact that that something could be nothing at all is what makes his throat close up and his eyes start to itch at the corners.

There is no grand delusion about a happy reunion with mutual declarations of love and devotion. There's no scenario in which this will end the way Sherlock craves it to and he's come to terms with that. He can live with that.

But he knows without a doubt that he _can not_ and _will not_ live without John in some capacity. It's impossible to survive without one's heart, after all.

The need for physical contact, for comfort is sudden and disgustingly overwhelming, but Sherlock is helpless, unable to resist it in his currently vulnerable state of mind. He reaches for Viola on the seat next to him and pulls her into his lap, wrapping trembling arms around her and burying his face with its pained, devastated expression in her hair. The shuddering and wet breaths that follow are completely involuntary and absolutely mortifying.

At least he had the foresight to close the partition between the driver and them, otherwise this little lapse of control would have been a hell of a lot more embarrassing than it already is.

Viola grumbles at the manhandling before snuggling close against him. "Are you sad?" she murmurs quietly and affectionately rubs her cheek over his chest.

"A bit, yes," Sherlock admits in a whisper, more to himself than the girl.

"It's okay to be sad sometimes, you know," she almost lectures and Sherlock can't help but smile at that. He kisses the top of her head and Viola hums in response, taking one of his hands into her two small ones.

* * *

It seems that, with the shops having been closed over Christmas, every single person in London has decided to go shopping today. It's hateful, Sherlock thinks and sneers at the business man who just bumped into them. He's too busy belittling his secretary on the phone to notice, however. Sherlock lifts his Oyster card and, in a fit of pique, throws it down the next drain.

His mood darkens further when they arrive at his usual tailor in Savile Row and he realises that he hasn't got a clue where to find anything in Viola's size. After a lot of grumbling and checking side streets he discovers a shop that looks promising, only for it to be closed for nearly another hour. Molly has informed him that Mike's busy during the morning and early afternoon, so going to the hospital now is no good either and the only other person who even knows Sherlock is alive happens to be Mycroft.

He isn't that bored or desperate. _Yet_.

Viola shifts against him and Sherlock adjusts his grip. She doesn't weigh all that much, certainly not nearly enough, but his arms are straining already, his back groaning and protesting and making him feel terribly old. He's oddly reluctant to set her down, though, when he looks at the mass of people pushing their way up and down the street. Instead he tightens his hold as they emerge back into the main road.

For a lack of anything better to do while they wait, Sherlock steers them back towards the barber they passed earlier. His hair is in a frightful state after being held captive and he could do with a proper shave.

The warm, humid air and steady, repetitive motions of fingers working over his scalp lull him into a half-doze fairly quickly and for once Sherlock simply goes with it. He hasn't indulged in any luxuries or, in some cases, even the basic human needs for nearly two years. It's about time he allowed himself a short moment to calm down and just _be_.

He can hear the shop assistant explaining the various products lined up along the shelves and Viola's answering inquiries and demands for additional information. She's delightfully curious, but what makes his lips twitch upwards every other minute is the prickling feeling on the back of his neck indicating that she's turned around to check if he's still there. It's probably - most likely - not considered healthy to revel in another person's dependence. Then again, Sherlock's never cared overly much what society deems appropriate or normal. And having such an enormous amount of trust thrust upon him by the girl, knowing she's his to care for, his sole responsibility... it's something else. It makes him feel honoured. _Privileged_.

And then she's by his side again the moment he gets up from the chair, one arm slung around his leg with fingers curled into his trousers and her head tipped against his upper thigh. Sherlock's hand finds its way into her curls automatically and she smiles up at him, all tiny white teeth and big brown eyes. The sight takes his breath away every single time. No wonder parents are idiots when it comes to their offspring. Not that other children stand even a remote chance against his girl, but Sherlock is starting to get the general idea.

* * *

The shop owner watches them warily from the moment Sherlock and Viola step through the front door. The emergency clothing Mycroft provided back in Poland isn't up to the high-class standards of the establishment, that much is true, but the final straw must be Lestrade's old jumper the girl is wearing as a substitute coat.

"Hello," Sherlock sing-songs, puts on his brightest, falsest smile and adopts a French accent, all soft vowels with a slight lisp. "We had a little accident, our bags got lost," he admits sheepishly and shrugs a shoulder.

The woman still looks suspicious, glancing at the two of them with narrowed eyes.

No matter. He's missed this, easy fibbing without an operation or his life depending on how convincing he makes himself sound. A bit of innocent fun.

Sherlock opens his mouth to start spinning an elaborate story, intentionally over the top just for the heck of it, but Viola beats him to it.

"Someone at la gare stole them. We only looked away for un moment and then they were gone," she says and sniffles, bottom lip stuck out into a pout. "My teddy was in there and now he's gone, too."

Well. Sherlock blinks owlishly before he catches himself and nods confirmatively. They'll need to have a conversation about lying, loathe as he is to discourage her fantasy and obviously remarkable acting potential.

John would be less than pleased if he were here, though. Two years and still the voice of reason in his head sounds like a majorly pissed off Army doctor. It's impossible to hear an image, but Sherlock knows that little voice has its arms crossed over its chest and is tapping an impatient foot.

"Oh, you poor thing," the woman gushes, clutching at her chest dramatically. "Well, I'm sure we can do something about the clothes, at least."

"Put everything together she might need for a fortnight's stay in London," Sherlock instructs and hands over his - Mycroft's - credit card. He sets Viola down once the owner's hurried off, shouting for a Pascal, and cocks an eyebrow at the girl.

"It's a game I used to play with Daddy Jim," Viola grins at him and she looks so proud, Sherlock reaches out and smoothes down her curls before realising the encouraging nature behind the gesture. Sod it. "We would go out and see if people could tell we were messing with them or not."

That sounds an awful lot like Moriarty, Sherlock thinks. Training for later? Moriarty would have had to tell his daughter about some of his dealings eventually as a simple matter of protection. Sherlock refuses to think about the idea that the sweet child in front of him had been supposed to inherit a multinational crime syndicate.

He settles in a plush armchair and lets the woman and Pascal, the obviously madly in love with her assistant, deal with sorting out Viola's clothing, the girl readily trailing after them to voice her opinions on the selected pieces.

Over the next half hour, bag after bag piles up at his feet and Sherlock can't help but grin at the thought of the bill his brother will be getting for all of this. The satisfied expression falters when Pascal exits the changing rooms and throws a withering glare in his direction before stalking off towards the register. The shop owner follows a moment later, leading Viola back to him and looking equally displeased.

"They think you're hurting me," Viola explains in a quiet whisper once they're alone. She absently rubs at her bruised arm which isn't covered by the sleeveless dress. The last remaining evidence of Patryk's rough treatment. "I told them it wasn't your fault but I don't think they believed me. And the woman is going to phone someone."

Sherlock has to grin again. A few hundred pounds and a visit from child protective services. Mycroft's going to be majorly annoyed.

"It doesn't matter," he finally says, casting his eyes over their shopping. "Jacket?"

"Bows first," the girl decides, reaching into one of the bags and producing a set of dark blue silk ribbons. She holds them out to Sherlock expectantly and the detective crouches down next to her, simply staring at the fabric for a moment. "Do you not know how to tie them?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock huffs and takes the ribbons.

"I want a Dutch braid," Viola announces and Sherlock silently thanks Peter Harvey the murdering hairdresser for forcing him to learn how to handle hair.

He's just finished and in the middle of bundling Viola up in a furry black coat, gloves, a scarf and an admittedly somewhat cute and stylish cloche hat when the shop owner returns with the credit card and the receipt.

"Mr Holmes," she bites out and practically tosses the piece of plastic at him. "Thank you for your purchase."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her attitude and inability to make observations and draw the most basic conclusions from them as he picks up Viola and settles her on his hip.

"The injuries on this girl's arm were obviously the result of someone wearing several rings forcefully dragging her along by said limb. I do not make a habit of wearing jewellery, as you can see by the lack of it on my person. That doesn't prove anything, you say? Well, apart from the fact that the bruises were caused by a person with significantly larger fingers than mine, you are right. You should take into consideration, however, the complete lack of fear the girl is displaying towards me, which I believe to be rather telling," he sniffs nonchalantly and picks up the bags with his free hand. "Also, your assistant is sickeningly fond of you, which unfortunately hasn't prevented him from stealing from the register for at least the last five weeks. Good day!"

The stunned faces of both the owner and Pascal perk Sherlock up considerably. Viola dips her face to hide her giggle in his neck and somehow Sherlock's world is strangely all right for the moment.

* * *

Mike is his usual, delightfully accepting self.

"So, not dead, then," he greets Sherlock with a big, cheerful smile and gestures at the examination table. "Make yourself comfortable."

Sherlock gives him a curt nod in thanks. He places Viola in one of the chairs by the desk and presses a quick kiss to the top of her head - already a ritual, he realises - before shucking his jacket and shirt and hopping up onto the table.

Mike works steadily and nearly silent, only tsking at the few torn stitches and informing Sherlock that he should be more careful in the future. The tone of his voice makes it perfectly clear that he isn't holding high hopes for that to happen, though.

"So," Mike says when they're finished and he's stripping of his gloves. "Who do we have here, then?" he asks and shoots another of his disturbingly sincere smiles at Viola.

"Viola," Sherlock informs him, doing up his buttons. "She's my... I'm her guardian."

Well. That was... awkward? He needs to find a proper term for referring to her. Foster child? No, that doesn't sound permanent enough. Child? True, going by her age, but not really fitting. Daughter? That one's permanent, at least, although a bit overwhelming when Sherlock tries it out in his head.

"Oh?" Mike arches a surprised eyebrow at Sherlock who narrows his eyes in response.

"Yes," he grunts out, voice clipped and tinged with finality.

Mike shakes off the unfriendliness with a shrug and a wave of his hand. "Just a regular check-up?" he confirms and Sherlock nods, watching carefully as the doctor helps Viola up on the table.

Viola is stripped to her underwear and vest, answering all of Mike's questions dutifully - Sherlock puts her birthday, February fourteenth 2007, meaning she's almost six, on a special shelf in his mind palace's new Viola room - while bending this way and that, opening her mouth and letting him look into her ears. She's prescribed some vitamin and iron supplements, gets some missed vaccines and does her best to suppress the tears Sherlock knows are threatening to spill over if the pressure where she's clutching his hand is anything to go by.

He knew it was coming, but Sherlock still gives an annoyed sigh when Mike bends close and puts on a serious expression that looks absolutely foreign on his face. "Have you been to see John yet?"

"He's out of the country," Sherlock says tensely, a bit defensively.

Mike nods and this time his smile is sad. "He hasn't been good lately. Without you, I mean. He's been... just, not good. Not really."

Sherlock briefly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Mike pats him on the shoulder and they share a knowing, foreboding glance before Sherlock goes to help Viola with the zipper on her dress.


	8. Chapter 8

**Per Aspera Ad Astra – Chapter VIII**

* * *

The only reason Mrs Hudson doesn’t hit him, Sherlock muses, is because he’s struggling to carry a small child and half a dozen shopping bags. And because she’s a decent old lady, of course.

“Oh Sherlock,” she gushes, smoothing her hands over the lapels of his coat, tugging and tweaking the fabric between shaking fingers. “You silly, silly boy.”

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock acknowledges with a small, tentative smile and bends down to kiss her cheek, lingering a bit longer than he normally would.

Mycroft must have spoken to her already, not even his usually completely unperturbed and hard to faze landlady would react in such a calm manner otherwise. Sherlock grinds his teeth together, torn between anger at his brother’s interference and relief at being able to forgo what would undoubtedly have been a tearful revelation.

He moves back a little and readjusts Viola who’s turned unnaturally shy and buried her face in his scarf. Not that Sherlock blames her. Had he been in her position today, he would probably have snapped and started shouting at people in the clothes shop. During the examination at the latest.

They are led into Mrs Hudson’s kitchen and sat down at the table for tea and freshly baked biscuits. Sherlock’s earlier suspicion is confirmed when, after making sure that Viola is busy with the telly in the corner and not looking their way, Mrs Hudson whacks him over the back of the head.

“Don’t ever do this again, do you hear me?” she hisses and tuts a bit, tapping her knuckles against his shoulder. “You owe me an explanation, young man. And an apology.”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” is all Sherlock manages. He casts his eyes down and stares at his cup like a thoroughly chastised schoolboy. He feels like one, too, so it’s pretty fitting, he realises with the tiniest of smirks.

Mrs Hudson gives a nod and then her features soften. She clasps one of Sherlock’s hands between her own, giving it a little squeeze. “Later,” she mouths, eyes briefly wandering over to the girl. Sherlock inclines his head in understanding, insanely grateful for the short respite before he has to start explaining the whole ordeal again.

“I made up your bed,” Mrs Hudson continues and bless her, Sherlock thinks, ducking in for another brief peck that makes the old lady blush and flutter her hands at him. “You’re welcome, dear, it’s quite all right. I brought some spare pillows and the warm afghan up to John- to the upstairs bedroom.”

Sherlock can’t help but twitch at the mention of the doctor. Curse the hold the man still has over him after all this time. Just, not really. Never. Having part of John, even just this ghost of something that once was, is better than nothing. It’s precious, even.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson sighs and then shakes her head at his admittedly atrocious attempt at a reassuring smile. “It will all be all right in the end, you’ll see,” she says, sounding so sincere that Sherlock wants to believe her with every fibre of his being although he knows this hope to be futile. Pointless. “He’ll be happy to see you again, I’m sure of it.”

Sherlock has no reply to that. Or, to be more precise, has several replies, none of which he wishes to speak out loud in fear of losing himself. He can’t think about John because if he starts, he won’t be able to stop. He’ll ask himself how John will react, what John will do, what the look in his eyes will be like when he hears of his supposedly best friend’s betrayal, if his eyes will do that crinkle thing that’s really rather endearing but usually means he’s disappointed or angry or-

“How is Mr Chatterjee these days, Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock interrupts his own, slowly but surely spinning out of control thoughts. “He is still running Speedy’s, is he not? I hear he finally divorced his wife? The one in Doncaster.”

Mrs Hudson throws him a look that clearly conveys that she knows exactly what he’s trying to do but is letting it slide. He can practically hear the ‘Just this once, dear.’ and gives a small chuckle. Mrs Hudson does her half fond, half exasperated eye-roll she perfected especially for him and gets up to refill the kettle.

“You missed one, you know,” she says, sounding a bit smug about him not having seen the whole picture. “You got the one in Doncaster and the one in Islamabad, but you never said a word about the one in Dhaka.”

***

It’s late by the time they finally make their way upstairs. Mrs Hudson insisted on making them dinner, stating that the two of them were in dire need of some feeding up and Sherlock, for once in his life, completely agreed.

“I stocked the kitchen up a bit,” Mrs Hudson says when they reach the landing, smoothing down Viola’s curls and then cupping Sherlock’s face, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks. “If there’s anything else you need-“

“We’ll be perfectly fine, Mrs Hudson. Thank you,” Sherlock interrupts, briefly laying one of his own hands over hers before stepping away. “Thank you.”

In his arms, Viola gives a sleepy murmur and snuggles closer against him, nuzzling her face into his neck. Mrs Hudson claps her hands together in delight at the picture of the two of them. It takes Sherlock’s sternest eyebrow-raise to finally get her to shuffle back down to her own flat.

“She’s nice,” Viola decides once they’re inside, the first words beside polite ‘thank yous’ she’s uttered since they arrived at Baker Street.

It was rather disconcerting, seeing her so quiet and subdued over the course of the evening. The complete opposite to the usually curious and talkative child. Not even Mrs Hudson’s friendly chatter and homemade stew managed to cheer her up, the more attention she received the tenser she got. It’s definitely something that warrants further investigation.

Sherlock drops the bags onto the sofa, automatically tightens his hold on Viola once his hands are free and suddenly comes to realise he has no idea whatsoever what to do with a child. He’s had the same realisation a couple of times over the last two days and one would think they’d get less shocking over time but, apparently, that’s not the case.

He needs some help, loathe as he is to admit it, even to himself. He lifts some old papers and magazines from the table until he finally uncovers his laptop. Then he has to hunt around for the cord which, in the end, he finds stuffed behind the skull on the mantle. He can’t help but grin and run his fingers over the bones, dipping them into the empty eye sockets and brushing them over the crooked teeth.

Smooth from years of handling. Familiar. 

_“Alas, poor Yorick!”_ Viola mutters, startling Sherlock out of his thoughts. She reaches out and Sherlock plucks the skull up from his spot and hands it to her.

_“I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?”_

The recital earns him an amused huff from the girl. “Daddy Jim liked him a lot. Daddy Sebastian told me he used to read to me when I was a baby.” She sets the skull back down, her face doing something complicated Sherlock can’t decipher properly. “I don’t remember it. Daddy Sebastian said he read to me when I couldn’t fall asleep but I don’t remember. After Daddy Jim was gone, Daddy Sebastian started reading to me. He said Daddy Jim would have liked us reading together.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again when he doesn’t have a clue what to say to that.

“I’m forgetting Daddy Jim,” Viola whispers and Sherlock wishes he couldn’t read the expression she’s wearing now. It’s panic, desperation and a bone deep sadness, all things which should never be associated with the demise of James Moriarty.

It’s mind-boggling to think that while he himself took the first step towards victory that day, on the roof of St. Bart’s, while he finally beat the master criminal and ended a nearly two decades long reign of terror and chaos, a little girl on the other end of the city lost a loving parent. One and the same man, two faces, polar opposites and yet just one single person.

James Moriarty versus Daddy Jim.

“Forgetting the nuances of a person doesn’t equal forgetting the entirety of said person,” Sherlock tries, painfully aware of how out of his depth he is here.

“Sometimes I can’t remember what he looked like,” Viola says, voice wobbling as she fights back tears. “It’s stupid because I have the necklace with the picture, but I want to remember him by myself, without help.”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, utterly unused to being in a position of needing to offer comfort and actually, honestly wanting to do so. “I wish there was a way for me to fix this, all of this, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he says eventually, grimacing at his choice of words. He may not be an expert at any of this, but even he can tell how far off the mark that was.

Viola, though, merely shrugs, sounding resigned when she speaks again. “Not everything can be fixed. Some things are just broken.”

“True,” Sherlock allows reluctantly, musingly. “Although broken pieces do not always fit back together the way they used to, one might be able to rearrange them and form something new. Not necessarily better or worse and not meant to replace or make one forget. A reminder of what once was, an opportunity to draw strength from something beloved and lost in order to keep moving forwards, perhaps?”

 _‘Brain of a philosopher,’_ comes Mycroft’s mocking voice, making Sherlock sneer silently. He should use his brother’s credit card a bit more excessively while he still has it. He’s always wanted a nice, big freezer for his experimental body parts. Quite possibly parts of Mycroft’s body.

“Maybe,” Viola says quietly and closes her eyes, hiding her face away against his neck, effectively ending this particular line of conversation.

Sherlock experiences a quick flash of guilt over the relief he’s feeling, then decides to just ignore it which is entirely frustrating because it only makes the guilt come back with increased intensity.

“Would you like to see the rest of the flat?” he asks, as much to distract himself as the girl. Viola nods against him, so he quickly moves through to his bedroom and then the bathroom, providing the instructions and explanations necessary.

In the kitchen on their way back his eyes fall on the fridge and he remembers the remedy grand-mère swore upon whenever he or Mycroft were in a foul mood or plagued by unpleasant thoughts and memories. He checks, relieved to find both milk and honey, and prepares the beverage without cursing at the microwave for a change.

Balancing the hot mug and Viola in one arm, Sherlock picks up the bag with the girl’s sleepwear and the medication Mike prescribed. He burns his fingers when some of the milk sloshes over but stubbornly refuses to either make two trips or let Viola walk by herself.

The intimacy they established during the last few days of their captivity has survived the transit into normal, everyday life so far and Sherlock is reluctant to diminish it. It’s _nice_ to have another person so close, physically and emotionally, after long months of isolation and loneliness. Besides, he reasons with himself, Viola obviously needs the reassurance.

The upstairs room is bare and cold, making Sherlock cringe slightly before pushing forward and depositing the girl along with everything else on the bed. “We can buy some additional... things to accommodate you tomorrow,” he says as he kneels down to pull off her shoes. Toys, maybe. And books. A rug. Curtains? Colourful things. Children like colourful things.

“It’s all right,” Viola yawns and Sherlock hands her the milk, sitting down next to her to undo the braid while she slowly sips it.

“Leave some for the tablets,” he reminds her, then frowns and scoops up one of the packages. “Did Mike say what time of day to take these?”

Viola gives a shake of her head and a shrug. “It’s just healthy vitamin stuff, I don’t think it matters. There’s some stuff that makes you sleepy and you should only take that before bed. Like cough syrup. But Mike didn’t say anything about that, so I guess it’s fine.”

Which is sound enough logic, Sherlock decides. Thankfully, as it turns out, Viola isn’t a fussy child, swallowing the tablets without protest and only wrinkling her nose at the drops.

He lets her change into her new pyjamas while goes to fetch a spare tooth- and hairbrush from his own bathroom to bring upstairs, glad despite himself that Mycroft kept everything as it was during his absence. The sink is too high up so he ends up lifting her to spit and rinse and wash her face and hands. All in all they manage just fine, though, of which Sherlock is somewhat proud.

After helping her settle under the blankets, Sherlock perches on the edge of the bed, softly running his fingers through her curls and over the cheek that’s not smashed into the pillow.

“I will be downstairs, you may come find me when you wake up,” he says as per the agreement they made the day before about him informing her of his whereabouts. “Even if I should happen to be sleeping,” he adds, struck by a memory of his own parents refusing their children access to their personal chambers.

“Okay,” Viola mumbles, arching into his touch and giving in to fatigue, letting her eyes fall closed. “Will you stay until I fall asleep, though?”

“Of course,” Sherlock smiles fondly, scooting back to lean against the wall, prepared for the wait. “Good night and sleep well.”

“G’night, Sherlock.”

It’s a matter of mere minutes until her breathing evens out, but Sherlock stays for a little while longer, content to simply rest for a bit. When he does leave, it’s not without kissing her forehead twice, once for her and then again, just for himself.

Back in the sitting room, he gathers up the file Lestrade handed him with a pointed look during a quiet moment in the morning. He makes himself comfortable in his armchair, taking a deep, steadying breath, and opens it to the first page.

His heart stops for a beat and his eyes widen in shocked surprise before he presses them tightly shut.

 _‘Damn,’_ he thinks and has to realise that the earlier guilt was laughably trivial compared to what’s threatening to crush his chest right now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Per Aspera Ad Astra - Chapter IX**

* * *

Sherlock’s initial reaction is to slam the file shut and throw it into a corner where he can easily forget about it until he has successfully deleted the whole incident from his brain.

Or, better even, tear the damned thing into tiny little pieces and watch them burn in the fire place while he scrubs the respective room of his mind palace with bleach. Twice.

It won’t work, though, he knows that much from experience. Nothing that has even the slightest link or connection to John, nothing that is in any way related to the doctor can be permanently erased. He tried. Sometimes, contrary to popular belief, Sherlock’s self-preservation instincts do kick in, although, admittedly, it’s much less frequent than would be advised by any healthy or completely sane person. Carefulness and diligence are just not the most helpful traits in his particular line of work.

But once, months before the possibility of returning to London became something that looked to be at all possible, Sherlock had reached a new personal low and decided he was done with it. With all of it.

For every spy or assassin he caught or otherwise incapacitated, two new ones emerged from the dark like shadows, like ghost, simply having been waiting for the opportune moment to make themselves known and start playing the game. And Sherlock had grown sick and tired of the game.

He’d jumped off a roof without being one hundred percent certain of his survival to ensure the safety of the people he cared about most, only to wake up battered and bruised and to his brother’s _brilliant_ plan of a chase around the globe to take down a dead man’s empire.

Mycroft hadn’t been wrong, of course, he almost never was - much to Sherlock’s endless chagrin. The network had been weakened by Moriarty’s death, his underlings left in confused disarray apart from the few higher-up’s entrusted with the task of keeping an eye on the eventual return of a presumably deceased consulting detective. In other words, the time had been right to strike and Sherlock would have been a fool not to take the chance. 

Still, though. The fact that he’d had to leave John behind to deal with his grief and guilt - over what Sherlock isn’t entirely sure to this day - had been unpredictably hard. Letting his best, and only, friend believe him dead when he would have preferred the man by his side, excited, adrenaline-fuelled smile in place and gun in hand, had turned out to be one of the most difficult things Sherlock ever had to do.

The decision itself not to include John had been an easy and quick one, though, because what would be the point in faking his own suicide to prevent any harm from coming to the man and then dragging him into an unknown but undoubtedly life-endangering situation?

No. John staying in London had been imperative to the whole operation. Not only for the doctor’s own safety, but for Sherlock’s as well. Seeing Sherlock’s supposedly closest confidant struggle along after his death had convinced the right people that Sherlock was indeed gone for good, effectively keeping the snipers away from John and the rest of Moriarty’s web always a step behind.

But Sherlock’s calculations had been wrong and John had surprised him again, albeit, for once, not in a positive way.

He stars down at the unofficial report in his hands now, never filed and therefore without lasting consequences, thanks to Lestrade. Sherlock is the last person to believe in fate or luck or coincidences, but he has to admit, at least to himself, that he’s more than glad things went the way they did that particular night.

Although he can’t fathom what would have driven John to take such drastic measures. He’s not usually overly fond of anything stronger than the occasional pint after having seen both father and sister succumb to addiction. And he’s a medical man, for goodness’ sake, and an exquisite one at that. Not a person to accidentally misjudge the dose of required sleeping pills after downing nearly half a bottle of scotch and almost sending himself off into a coma.

No, that’s something Sherlock with his flair for the dramatic would do. Did do. Only that he used something intravenous to avoid getting sick and stupidly throw up and thwart his plan. Locked himself away in the hotel room he’d kept a secret from his brother’s people and then screamed bloody murder once that brother found him anyway.

Sherlock knows his reasons, can still acknowledge the validity of them even if he’s know ashamed of having come that close to giving up and missing out on the opportunity to see John again. He ripped a hole right through his chest by leaving and kept tearing himself apart every day of his journey until it became too much and he wanted, _needed_ it all to stop.

In the end, it was what had given him the push he required for his final mission so, in Sherlock’s opinion, it had all worked out for the best. Mycroft disagrees strongly, but then the two of them not coming to terms on something is hardly anything new.

But John, he’s the odd factor here. John almost died while Sherlock was halfway across the globe and no matter what the man himself claimed or the doctors at the A&E said in the report, none of what had happened was simply a stupid oversight on John’s part. So either Sherlock had overestimated John’s self-control or John had indeed tried to leave this world by unnatural means; two equally unacceptable scenarios.

Unable and unwilling to dwell on things past that can’t be helped now anyway - and are agonisingly painful to think about - Sherlock puts the report back into its folder and stuffs the damned thing between the arm and seat of the red armchair on his way over to the table and his laptop.

Out of sight, out of mind - isn’t that how the saying goes?

* * *

Sherlock doesn’t know the first thing about children, although he comes to realise that two thirds of the people on those supposedly advice-providing websites don’t either. And that’s him excluding all the mummy message boards full of unlived childhood dreams, regretted pregnancies and crippling self-doubt. Ghastly, those.

He does find a few pages containing helpful tips and general suggestions for first-time parents, but nearly all of those are directed at people with newborns or toddlers. The mouse pad is definitely feeling his growing irritation through much too forceful stabs and swipes when he finally stumbles across a forum for adoptive- and stepparents looking for information about how to connect with and treat their mostly already school aged children.

With a pleased hum, Sherlock opens a spreadsheet and starts transferring what strikes him as useful and applicable from the open tabs; positive reinforcement that the child is welcome in the family despite lack of biological relation, finding shared interests and taking an active part in those, several things about a regular sleeping schedule preventing grouchiness and the importance of a healthy diet.

It all sounds pretty straightforward, though it would have been nice to have some frame of reference, Sherlock thinks with a slight pang of frustration directed at his own parental units. Hiring a few nannies and a cook and private tutors has and always will seem like an attempt at purposefully distancing themselves from their children in order to prevent any possibly time-consuming emotional attachments. No matter how much Byron and Gaetane claim otherwise.

Firmly shoving the thoughts of his parents away and back into the corner of his mind where they belong, Sherlock opens up his favoured online bookstore. He considers for a moment, then goes with some fiction he himself used to like when he was younger; Treasure Island, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Gulliver's Travels, James and the Giant Peach, Watership Down and, of course, Peter Pan. The site suggests The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Winnie-the-Pooh and Matilda, so he adds them to his basket as well.

Some of the books should actually still be in storage somewhere, so he texts Mycroft to bring them by as soon as possible. The bit of physical labour will surely do him good. Deleting those again, he searches for some non-fiction about topics Viola has shown interest in during their, admittedly short, time together, ending up buying a frankly ridiculous amount of material about pirates, ocean life, general history, ancient languages, different cultures and outer space.

That in turn leads to the purchase of an illuminating globe because reading about places doesn’t make any sense if one has no idea where those places are. He also finds some historical maps he thinks the girl will like and would look nice up on the currently bare walls. Then, in a sudden need to add something of himself to the mix, Sherlock navigates to a page selling science equipment for kids and, well, if he goes a bit wild with it all, it’s still his brother paying, so that’s all right.

After that it gets trickier since he feels that, while all the things so far can be seen as gifts, the more personal items should be chosen by Viola. She’s the one having to live with them, after all. What he can do is order some furniture that’s more appropriate for a five-year-old than the well-used, squeaky bed and depressing dark wardrobe upstairs. Finding a loft bed shaped after a ship, including a Jolly Roger and a plank converted into a slide has Sherlock bouncing on his chair in glee and then, a moment later, blinking in complete bewilderment.

Realising how invested he is in making Baker Street a home for Viola is somewhat startling, especially given the fact that he never had role models displaying any sort of nurturing tendencies towards him.

Maybe Mycroft did, at some point, but he’s not all that much older than Sherlock and was always more interested in being _controlling_ than _caring_. Lestrade definitely views him as a surrogate son, although having met when Sherlock was in his twenties prevented the forming of anything resembling what people would call a normal parent-child bond.

Sherlock very carefully does not think about John and his caretaking nature, his constant nagging for Sherlock to eat and sleep and at least show a minimal amount of politeness which he always pretended to be annoyed about but secretly revelled in. He does _not_.

Instincts, then. Huh.

On one hand, it’s frightening to see how ordinary he is in that regard but, on the other, no one can, in good conscience, call him a freak incapable of emotion now, can they? He should send out a memo, just for the amusing reactions he’d get. However, his not being dead would most likely overshadow that anyway.

And, Sherlock frowns, since when does he give a lick how people see him or what they think of him? Apparently, two years running after psychotic killers and other scum brings out the humanity in oneself. Interesting. Who knew?

Smiling to himself, Sherlock opens a new window to start looking for toys that will actually promote and encourage Viola’s abilities instead of that blink-y thing you have to bop and push and flick he saw earlier.

* * *

The creaking of the stairs causes Sherlock to shift his attention from an article about the positive effects a musical education can have on a child’s memory development to the sitting room door just in time to see Viola climb down the last step.

A quick glance back at the laptop screen and the general lack of natural light confirm that it’s nowhere near morning, but the reason for the girl’s mid-nightly trip becomes clear the instant Sherlock takes a closer look at her; nightmares.

Red, slightly puffy and still wet eyes, messy hair, sniffling, shuffling feet and a tiny mouth set between a firm line and a stubborn pout to hide the quivering of her lips. All the signs are clear as day, yet Sherlock has no idea what to do, so they end up staring at each other from opposite sides of the room.

“You had a nightmare,” Sherlock says eventually and grimaces at the obviousness of his statement. Viola, though, doesn’t appear to agree with that.

“No,” she denies, defiantly juts out her chin and narrows her eyes. “I’m fine.”

Which kind of takes the wind out of Sherlock’s sails since his next question would have been what she’d dreamed about. It seems like the logical thing to ask, despite him having a fairly good idea what’s disrupting the girl’s sleep. Or, rather, it seemed like it. Apparently not.

Sherlock shrugs mentally, deciding to go with whatever Viola’s up to. “Did you need something?”

“You said I could come downstairs when I wake up.”

True, Sherlock has to admit while trying to hide the grin threatening to break free. “It’s early, I’m sure you’re still tired.”

Viola, as if to prove that, yawns. And then scowls at the fact that she just did. “The bed is uncomfortable. And the radiator went out. It’s cold upstairs. The pipes make weird sounds, it’s distracting me from sleeping.”

This time, Sherlock does smile. Although none of those are the actual reason she sought him out, all the points she made are valid complaints. Clever girl.

“Come on, then,” Sherlock announces, snapping his laptop shut and picking it up before striding past the girl towards his own bedroom.

They arrange themselves with Sherlock sitting against the bed’s headboard and Viola nestled between his legs, leaning back against his chest and insisting that she isn’t tired anymore until she nods off again not ten minutes later.


	10. Chapter 10

**Per Aspera Ad Astra - Chapter X**

* * *

Mycroft comes by indecently early the next day, his only saving grace the carton tray of steaming Styrofoam cups that spare Sherlock the utter boredom of having to brew his morning tea himself.

He snatches the cup incorrectly labelled ‘Sherlok’, wrinkles his nose at the stupidity of the general population and flops down in his chair all while stubbornly failing to otherwise acknowledge his brother’s presence.

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft sighs, the eye-roll clearly discernible in the dryness of his voice, and makes himself at home on the sofa. Without preamble, he opens his briefcase and produces a file, placing it on the coffee table between them. “These need your signature.”

Intrigued despite himself, Sherlock picks it up, careful to keep his expression completely neutral, and begins rifling through the papers. His fingers come to an abrupt halt when he realises what it is he’s holding. “That was fast.”

“Some people would call it efficiency,” Mycroft drawls, gesturing for his brother to go on reading. “Besides, time might just be of the essence here. We know next to nothing about the girl, the second half of her parentage or which of Moriarty’s connections know of her existence and could, therefore, make an attempt to retrieve her. I believe it would be wise to secure her here for the time being, legally at least.”

Sherlock hums vaguely, then frowns at the altered name. “Viola Eulalie Holmes?” he asks, arching a questioning eyebrow.

Mycroft gives a minute shrug of his left shoulder. “Broadcasting the name Moriarty did not seem like the best of ideas.” 

“And bringing me back from the dead with a mystery child in tow did?” Sherlock demands in a huff, throwing the file back down and running a hand through his curls, ruffling them roughly.

“That, dear brother, is entirely on you,” Mycroft reminds him, earning himself an angry glare.

“What was I supposed to do? Leave her there?” Sherlock snaps defensively, pulling his dressing gown tighter around himself. “And don’t tell me you’re not pleased to have found such a valuable asset for your negotiation with Moran.”

“Contrary to your convictions, I do have some common decency,” Mycroft grits out, his jaw clenched. “No one knows about her origins, there are no plans whatsoever to use her to gain information from anyone in the network.”

“Good. I wouldn’t let you.”

“I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

The alarm on Sherlock’s mobile interrupts before more shots can be fired and the detective jumps up, shutting it off before turning toward his bedroom.

“Children need a regular schedule, starting with a fixed bedtime and morning routine,” he answers Mycroft’s unposed but obvious question. He ignores the amused tilt to the other man’s lips and vanishes down the hall to retrieve the girl.

* * *

Sherlock quietly pushes open the door, fully expecting Viola to still be dozing after the eventful last few weeks and the previous night’s interrupted sleep. Yet she’s awake, eyes open but unfocused, and weeping silently into the pillow she’s curled her small, quivering body around.

With two quick steps, Sherlock is next to the bed and crouching down, hand reaching out to smooth the damp curls away from her forehead. Her temperature is minimally elevated, most likely due to the strain from having cried for quite a while already. No fever, then, Sherlock notices with a hefty dose of relief.

“Viola?” he ventures cautiously, concerned by her apathetic state and the unusual lack of any sort of reaction to his touch. “Are you hurt?”

It takes a full minute of struggling for the girl to come back to herself enough to shake her head in answer. She neither talks nor does she lift her gaze to look at Sherlock at all.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Sherlock tries and gets another head-shake. “Are you ill? Does anything hurt?”

When she doesn’t reply at all this time, Sherlock straightens and makes to pick her up, surprised when he meets no resistance and she leans heavily into him instead. He turns on his heels and strides back out of the room, desperate not to be left alone with what is rapidly turning out to be an utterly overwhelming situation.

Mycroft looks up from the open parenting tabs on the laptop screen when Sherlock walks back into the sitting room, expression going from slightly bedazzled to honestly worried in the blink of an eye.

“What happened?”

Sherlock helplessly shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he admits, shifting the sniffling, listless girl on his hip. “This is how I found her.”

Viola presses closer against his side, burying her face deeper in his neck with a small whine. Sherlock’s throat clenches as he watches her, unsure what to say or do. She’s clearly upset, very much so in fact, but for all his scanning and searching, Sherlock can’t find the reason for it. A quick glance at his brother shows that neither can he which, given Mycroft was the one who taught Sherlock the science of deduction in the first place, is somewhat disconcerting.

After a moment, Mycroft comes closer and peers down at the girl, brows drawn together into a contemplating frown. Sherlock narrows his own eyes at him in return.

“What? Tell me, Mycroft!”

Mycroft, however, merely shakes his head, obviously still considering something. Sherlock opens his mouth to snap or possibly shout at him, but is once again interrupted by the piercing ring of his new phone.

“Hand her to me,” Mycroft says, his voice oddly gentle like Sherlock hasn’t heard it in decades, and holds out his arms for Viola. When Sherlock hesitates, he arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow and clucks his tongue. “I have held children before, Sherlock,” he tsks, “one of them being you, if you care to remember. Viola will be perfectly all right to stay with me for a moment. Go talk to the Detective Inspector.”

There’s no question that it is indeed Lestrade calling if Mycroft chose to point it out and Sherlock is eager to hear how the two of them have conspired against him this time. Their private relationship does apparently not interfere with their work-related one or their meddling in Sherlock’s personal business. Pity, that.

With great reluctance, Sherlock allows Mycroft to take Viola from him and watches him cradle her against his chest, one arm under her bottom for support and one hand lightly pressed between her shoulder blades for comfort. Viola hiccups a little but tucks her tear-streaked face under his chin as Mycroft begins to bounce her, humming soothingly next to her ear.

Sherlock despises the fact that he knows how calming his brother can be if he wishes to. He’s been held like this countless times as a small child and saw him do the same thing to Valérie whenever one of them would wake up from nightmares or come running with a scraped knee. Where Sherlock mostly lacks any and all interpersonal skills, Mycroft merely decided they were a weakness and hid them away, only ever taken out under extreme circumstances. He possesses them, though, and Sherlock doesn’t, at least not in the same capacity. It has always been a point of unmentioned jealousy on Sherlock’s part.

Sherlock grunts, resigned, and answers the mobile with a barked, “What do you want?” while he moves out onto the landing.

 _“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”_ Lestrade asks immediately, causing Sherlock to sigh in annoyance at his completely ill-timed perceptiveness.

“What did my brother put you up to?” Sherlock counters, selecting to ignore Lestrade’s original question.

There is a beat of silence followed by a displeased sigh, but eventually Lestrade drops the subject without further prodding. _“Bringing you back from the dead. The idea of an official press conference down at the Yard has been thrown around.”_

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock sniffs, offended at the very idea of prancing around in front of dozens of camera teams and press vultures to announce his return and be made the headline of the week. He directs a glare at the wall to the sitting room, willing his brother and his idiotic plans to go up in flames.

Lestrade chuckles, honest amusement audible in his voice. _“Yeah, I figured. I still need you to come down here, though. Chief Superintendent has ordered a review, or rather re-review, of all the cases you were involved in. Lots of data and info’s been... misinterpreted after your dea- disappearance, I suppose.”_

“Marvellous,” Sherlock groans, leaning his hip against the banister and rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m surprised they want me anywhere near that project.”

_“Talk to your brother about that.”_

He’s thankful, on the one hand, that he will be able to set at least some of the records concerning his work straight. But then again, digging his way through the last decade and some of his collaboration with NSY is bound to be a tedious affair and the last thing Sherlock has the patience for at the moment. An unavoidable and necessary task nonetheless, he knows. It’s maddening.

“When do you need me?”

 _“Well,”_ Lestrade laughs, seemingly taken aback by this, _“that was easier than I expected. No tantrum? No insulting anyone? Christ, that’s new.”_

“Lestrade,” Sherlock snaps impatiently, tapping a finger against his thigh.

 _“Fine, all right,"_ Lestrade relents, considering for a moment. _“We’ll need a day to haul everything back up from the archives and then it’s going to be New Year’s soon and-“_

“Day after tomorrow it is.”

 _“Sherlock,”_ the Detective says carefully, sounding conflicted. _“Are you sure you’re-“_

“Of course. I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” Sherlock says instinctively, temper flaring.

Lestrade doesn’t appear convinced, though. _“What about Viola? You got a sitter? Someone to watch her? And she’ll be okay with that after, you know, everything?”_

That stumps him for a second, throwing him for a loop. He has someone else to consider now, Sherlock realises with a start, mouth dropping open in a way that would be embarrassing if someone were there to witness it. And while he’d like nothing more than to push it all away and relax for a while, unbelievable as that sounds coming from him, that is not a possibility right now.

There’s this itch, this need to return things to how they were before he left or at least close to that, to regain some semblance of normalcy. Or whatever goes for normal in 221B Baker Street. And building his career back up is the only thing Sherlock can think of to achieve that. It’s all he has, even if it lies in shambles, everything and nearly everyone else - the one who matters - is gone.

Leaving Viola at home with someone else or, God forbid, bringing her to a nursery is a terrifying thought, though, so Sherlock improvises.

“Book Conference room 7B, the one with the small side office. And leave that empty, I’ll require some additional space.”

 _“What for?”_ Lestrade demands dubiously, not at all convinced when Sherlock lies, “Research.”

His hesitance is of no consequence, there is no force on Earth which could separate Sherlock from his charge at the moment and since providing eventual stability for Viola is equally if not more important, the work and the child will have to be combined for the time being. Whatever he does cannot possibly be worse than what she suffered at the hands of Patryk, Sherlock tries and fails to rationalise, shoving the whole train of thought away in the end when it starts to become too intense to handle.

 _“Sherlock, listen,”_ Lestrade continues, gentle and soft in a manner that grates on Sherlock’s nerves. _“You know there are people here for you, right? I’m here if you need me. All you have to do is call or text and-“_

“Day after tomorrow,” Sherlock repeats, then adds a stern, “Goodbye.” and hangs up, heart beating wildly in his chest so that he has to take a few deep breaths before he feels steady enough to rejoin the others.

Mycroft, meanwhile, has relocated to the kitchen where he sits in one of the chairs with Viola on his knees facing him, head pillowed against his chest as she watches him move a yellow crayon across the page of a brand new colouring book, not participating per se but not entirely absent either.

The sight is so unexpected, Sherlock actually freezes in the doorway until his eyes flicker to the girls arm and he spots-

“Your brought Te- that _thing_ ,” he hisses, pointing an accusing finger at the bunny-shaped cuddly toy.

Mycroft’s smirk is downright villainous. Having that bastard for an older sibling should be outlawed by the Queen herself. “Why yes, I brought Tesla,” he smiles, all feigned sweetness. “Along with the books you requested and some things from storage I deemed useful. The boxes are downstairs.”

Sherlock bristles, but only for a moment. He is reluctantly grateful, after all. Lugging everything upstairs to Viola’s room for later unpacking takes a good ten minutes and when he finally enters the kitchen again, he can’t help the fondness squeezing at his chest.

Somehow, his brother has coaxed another crayon into Viola’s hand, encouraging her lazy scrawling with an enthusiasm usually reserved for desserts. Sherlock is still worried, can see the signs that whatever happened this morning isn’t over just yet, but it hasn’t gotten worse and that’s better than nothing, he supposes.

“Why did you never have children of your own?” he blurts suddenly, eyes growing wide before he quickly changes his expression to blankly neutral again. Family is not a topic the two of them are able to discuss without descending into shouting matches. Or worse. It depends on their respective moods at the time.

“I never found the woman of my dreams,” Mycroft intones dramatically, exchanging yellow for purple.

“Using your sexuality as an excuse stopped being funny when it got you out of attending church and prevented me from doing the same some years later because Mummy thought I was ‘only copying my big brother’ and informed me that ‘simply because your brother and his kind choose to live in sin, Sherlock, doesn’t mean you have to make the same mistakes’,” Sherlock harangues, irritated and petulant, and flops down in one of the empty chairs. “Besides, this is the twenty-first century. There are other methods, surrogates and adoption. You always wanted a family, I know you did.”

Mycroft shoots him a look, then, one stuck somewhere between wistful and nostalgic. “The time was never right,” he says firmly, making it crystal clear that this particular discussion is over and done with.

Feeling accommodating for once, Sherlock focuses his attention back on Viola, leaning over the table to brush a curl out of her face. “How are you feeling?”

“I woke up sad,” she shrugs, missing Mycroft’s pinched lips that say he suspected as much and Sherlock slumping further down in his seat.

They could be wrong about this of course, but it would just be the perfect way for the universe to screw him over once more, Sherlock thinks glumly, to gain a child not biologically related to him and apparently still being unfortunate enough to carry the same potential for early-onset depression like the rest of the Holmes clan.

Viola grunts when Sherlock plucks her out of Mycroft’s lap and wraps her up in his arms but hugs him back eventually, tiny hands fisting into his sleep shirt.

Behind them, Mycroft looks tired.


End file.
